ice, 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