h the
roof in. Bear it, Jack. We've got to beat this fire."

The main building of the Washington Hotel was long, rather than high,
with an open veranda along Main Street. The third story was mainly
steep roof and dormer-windows, and the kitchen addition had only a
story and a half. It was an easy building to get into or out of. Very
quickly, after the cry of "Fire!" was heard, the only people in it,
upstairs, were such of the guests as had the pluck to go and pack their
trunks. The lower floor was very well crowded, and it was almost a
relief to the men actually at work as firemen that so many other men
kept well back because they were in their "Sunday-go-to-meeting"
clothes.

Everybody was inclined to praise Jack Ogden and his father, who were
making so brave a fight on the roof within only a few feet of the smoke
and blaze. It was heroic to look a burning house straight in the face
and conquer it. During fully half an hour there seemed to be doubt
about the victory, but the pails of water came up rapidly, a line of
men and boys along the roof conveyed them to the hands of Jack, and the
fire had a damp time of it, with no wind to help. The blacksmith had
chopped a hole in the roof, and Tom and Sam Bannerman, the carpenters,
were already calculating what they would charge old Livermore to put
the addition in order again.

"There, Jack," said his father, at last, "we can quit, now. The fire's
under. Somebody else can take a turn. It's the hottest kind of work.
Come along. We've done our share, and a little more, too."

Jack had just swallowed a puff of smoke, but as soon as he could stop
coughing, he said:

"I've had enough. I'm coming."

Other people seemed to agree with them; but there would have been less
said about it if little Joe Hawkins had not called out:

"Three cheers for the Ogdens!"

The cheers were given as the two volunteer firemen came down the
ladder, but there were no speeches made in reply. Jack hurried back
home at once, but his father had to stop and talk with the Bannermans
and old Hammond, the miller.

"Jack," said his mother, looking at him, proudly, from head to foot,
"you're always doing something or other. We were looking at you, all
the while."

"He hasn't hurt his Sunday clothes a bit," said Aunt Melinda, but there
was quite a crowd around the gate, and she did not hug him.

He was a little damp, his face was smoky, his shirt-collar was wilted,
and his shoes woul