An inarticulate murmur followed his words, but the wild din of a moment before was not resumed. In a moment, too, the pressure of bodies against the double line of scouts about the door began to relax as those in the rear made haste to seek other ways of escape. Presently it had ceased entirely, and as the boys straightened up from their cramped positions Mr. Curtis turned to face them.

“I’m proud of you, fellows,” he said in a low, quick tone. “That was corking! Steady, now, for a minute or two longer.”

That minute or two seemed the longest space of time Bob Gibson had ever known. Now that the stress and strain of strenuous action was removed he had time to think, to wonder–to be afraid. His mother and father were both here; so was Ted and little Flossie. Had they been in that awful crush? he wondered, as his anxious gaze flashed from one to another of the scurrying groups. Had they been hurt? The smoke was pouring more thickly into the hall, stinging his eyes and catching his throat in a choking sort of grip. Through the open windows came the clash and clang of engines, the muffled roar of excited crowds gathering below. Bob could see nothing of his mother or the children, and a dry sob came from his tight lips.

“’Tention!” called the scoutmaster, sharply. “We’ll take the two windows at this side of the front, fellows. Line up on either side of them, and keep the crowd in order. Women and children first, remember. Left face! March!”

Bob pivoted mechanically and moved forward in step with MacIlvaine. Through the swirling smoke he could see that the other troops had gathered at different windows and were keeping the crowd in line, helping the women and small children through to the fire-escapes or out to the ladders which had just been raised. By this time the men, for the most part, had recovered from their panic and were helping in the work. Suddenly the boy caught sight of his mother in the line of people close by the next window. She was carrying Flossie, and his father had Ted over one shoulder. They both looked so calm and brave that Bob’s spine stiffened, and when he caught his mother’s eye a moment later he was able to smile and wave his hand almost as carelessly as if his heart wasn’t pounding unevenly at the sudden realization that not a scout could stir until every one else was out of the building.

It wasn’t a conscious longing for any one else’s place. It was blind fear, pure and simple; and though he tried to crush it down by thinking of the people he was helping, it persisted and grew stronger, just as the smoke grew steadily denser and more choking, and the crackle of flames seemed to come from behind the closed doors with ominous distinctness. When the electric lights suddenly went out leaving only the two oil side-lamps burning dimly, it was all he could do to keep from crying out with terror. Indeed, he instinctively took a quick step out of line toward the window, but Mr. Curtis’s cool voice halted him:

“Steady, Bob. Not quite yet.”

The boy’s fingers dug into his palms and he stepped quickly back into his place, a flush of shame mantling his cheeks. Had any of the other fellows noticed? he wondered. His questioning glance swept along the line and was suddenly arrested by the face of Dale Tompkins, who stood a little beyond.

Dale was not looking at him; on the contrary, he was staring back into the murky gloom of the big room with an expression of such desperate anxiety and fear that Gibson’s heart leaped, and instinctively he turned his head to see what new peril threatened. When he glanced back, after a scrutiny that revealed nothing unexpected, Tompkins had disappeared.

“He’s gone!” gasped the boy, his surprise mingled with a touch of envy. “He’s cut out and got away!”

But Dale had not run away. At that very moment, instead of flying panic-stricken to a window, as Bob supposed, he was groping his way through the darkness toward the farther end of the smoke-filled hall. As he passed behind the line of scouts and pushed on through the thinning throng of frightened people, fear filled his soul and brought a tortured look into his smarting eyes–that fear for another which is often so much more gripping than the fear for self.

Ages ago, it seemed to the anxious boy, Ranny Phelps had disappeared in this same direction and had not returned. Dale had caught a disjointed word or two about water-buckets, but where they were or to what use Ranny meant to put them he did not know. With growing alarm he had watched and waited, and then, unable to stand the suspense another instant, he slipped out of the line and went to seek his friend.

As he passed the double doors the smoke seemed to thicken, causing him to choke and sputter. Where was it coming from, he wondered dazedly. It was as if great volumes were pouring freely into the hall, yet the doors to the corridor had been closed from the first.

He stumbled over a chair and nearly fell. Recovering, his outstretched hands struck the wall, and he began to feel his way along it. Presently his fingers gripped the edge of a door-casing, and he staggered back as a fresh burst of suffocating fumes caught his lungs with a smothering clutch.

For an instant he stood there reeling. Then in a flash he remembered the coat-room, remembered the narrow pair of stairs leading down from one corner with a row of red fire-buckets on a bench beside it. These were the buckets Ranny had come for. The door to the stairs was–open!

He caught his breath with a dry sob and plunged into the pitchy darkness of the smaller room. Two steps he took–three. Then his foot struck against something, and he fell forward over a body stretched out on the floor, his out-thrust arms reaching beyond it.

For a moment he thought it was all over. His senses were swimming in the clouds of deadly smoke pouring up from below, and it took an appreciable second or two to realize that the thing one hand clutched instinctively was the edge of an open door. Almost as instinctively he summoned all his strength and flung it to. The resulting slam came as something indistinct and far away. He wondered if he were losing consciousness, and in the same breath his jaw squared with the stubborn determination that he would not–he must not! As he reached up to tear the wide handkerchief from about his neck his fingers brushed the silver cross pinned to his left breast, and the touch seemed to give him fresh courage.

With feverish haste he felt for Ranny’s wrists, knotted the neckerchief about them, and, drawing them over his head, began to crawl toward the door. Too late he remembered the water in the buckets and wished he had thought to dip a handkerchief in that to breathe through. Doubtless it was that very idea which had brought Ranny himself here. But he did not dare turn back, and after all, now that the stair door was closed, the smoke did not seem quite so dense, especially down here on the floor.

He reached the door and crawled through, dragging his helpless burden with him. Through the smoke the farther windows were vaguely outlined against a flickering, reddish background. A brighter line of fire marked the crack beneath the double doors. Under his body, too, the floor felt hot, and he could sense a queer, uneven pulsation as if the boards were moving. What if the flames should burst through before they could get away? What if–

“Dale! Ranny! Where are you?”

It was the scoutmaster’s voice, and Dale’s broke a little as he answered. In another moment Mr. Curtis was beside him, bending to lift the unconscious boy in his arms.

“Are you all right?” he asked tersely as he turned toward the windows.

“Yes.”

Scrambling to his feet, Dale stumbled after him. A crackling roar from behind the closed doors made him shiver. The windows were clear. Every one seemed to have left the hall save a single figure standing beside the nearest opening, one leg already over the sill.

“Quick, Wes!” snapped Mr. Curtis. “Get out on the ladder and take him. Fireman’s lift, you know.”

Becker obeyed swiftly, and, swinging the limp body over his shoulder, disappeared from view.

“Now, Dale,” ordered the scoutmaster. “You–”

The words were drowned in a crashing roar as the doors fell in. There was a sudden, blinding burst of flame, a wave of scorching heat that seemed to sear into Dale’s very soul. He flung up both hands before his eyes, and, as he did so, two arms grasped him about the body and fairly whirled him through the window to the ladder.

“Catch hold and slide!” commanded the scoutmaster. “Hustle!”

Mechanically, as he had done a score of times in their fire-drills from the roof of Mr. Curtis’ barn, Dale curled arms and legs about the ladder sides, shut his eyes, and slid. Part way down a blast of heat struck his face; then hands caught him, easing the descent, and he found himself on the ground, with firemen all around and the cool spray from one of the big, brass-nozzled hoses drifting across him. He had scarcely time to step away from the ladder when Mr. Curtis, with hair singed and clothes smoking, shot out of the flame-tinged smoke and came down with a rush, while from the anxious crowd there burst a loud cheer of relief and laxing tension.

Dale blinked and drew the clean air into his lungs with long, uneven breaths. Then the grimy face of Court Parker popped up suddenly before him.

“Where’s Wes, and–and Ranny?” demanded Tompkins sharply.

“Over there.”

Dale pushed his way across the street and up to the edge of a circle that some of the scouts had formed about a small group on the farther sidewalk. This opened to let him through, and as he stood looking down on the handsome, blackened, pallid face of the boy Becker and MacIlvaine were working over, something seemed to grip his throat and squeeze it tight.

“Is he–” he stammered, “will he–”

Becker glanced up and nodded reassuringly. “He’s coming round all right. He’s pretty well done up, that’s all.”

Under the shadowy tangle of disordered hair Ranny’s lids suddenly lifted, and the blue eyes looked straight up into Dale’s face. For a second there was absolutely no expression in them. Then something flickered into the glance that made Dale’s heart leap and sent the blood tingling to the roots of his hair. A moment later the pale lips moved, and he bent swiftly to catch the words.

“I knew–you’d come–chum,” Ranny whispered. Then his lips curved in a rueful smile. “Of all the rotten luck!” he murmured. “They never saw–our drill.”