did a mean trick and I'm
willing to take my medicine." The boys saw in this only a reference to
the fight.

"That's all right, Bill," exclaimed Frank. "It was my fault as much as
yours. We shook hands on it when it was over, and as far as I'm
concerned, it's ended." Then turning to the crowd he said, "I say,
fellows, let's call it square," to which they more or less willingly
agreed.

Bill now felt that he was small compared with his late opponent. He saw
Frank do by a word what he himself could not do by words or blows. He
waited until he got the opportunity, and then gave Frank a signal that
he had something to say. Frank stepped aside.

"I want to make myself right with the 'bunch'," Bill told him. "I came
over for that. But if I start to speak, they'll 'ride' me. You can help
me. I got to say, Mulvy, that you're a far better fellow than I am, in
every way. I was a skunk to bring on that fight. And I was worse than a
skunk in doing what I did afterwards. But I'll be hanged if I'm going to
stay one. I'll take all that's coming to me and square myself. You know
what I mean?"

He paused for a reply, but Frank's ideas were in too much confusion to
permit a ready answer. This was strong language to apply to a mere
fight. It suggested that there was truth in the surmise of Ned Mullen,
that there was more than the fight to account for the unusual stand
taken by Father Boone in the affair.

Bill cleared his throat nervously, to continue, when the clang of fire
bells sounded, and the rushing of the fire engines and trucks along the
street brought the boys in a stampede to the door and the street
windows. Frank and Bill were carried along with the others.

(VI)

Ordinarily, the passing of a fire engine engaged the crowd's attention
but a few moments. The dashing engine and hose-cart always made a good
spectacle. But now as the Club boys looked along the street, they saw
not only smoke but flames. And they heard screams. All the fellows
rushed out and followed the engine to the place where the police were
roping off the fire line. The hook-and-ladder came along at a tearing
pace. The firemen jumped from the truck, hoisted up the long,
frail-looking ladder, and threw it against the cornice of the roof.

The shock somehow unhitched a connection at the last extension. The
ladder hung suspended by only a light piece of the frame. In the window
right under the ladder was a woman, and a child of four or five years.
The