Bob Somers, in his room on the upper floor of Pembroke Hall, was busily engaged in working out an algebraic equation. The cozy little study adjoined his bedroom, and was situated almost underneath a tower which rose above the surrounding trees. On the walls several engravings and photographs were tastefully hung, while close to the desk before which Bob was seated stood a table covered with the various odds and ends which boys are apt to possess.
It was one of those cold, keen winter nights when the comforts of a warm and cozy room seem especially attractive. The weather was clear, but the streets were white with snow, and a slight breeze made the tree-tops sigh and murmur.
Suddenly Bob Somers raised his eyes from the paper before him and listened intently.
The booming of a bell came over the frosty air, now very faint, then rising clearly, as the sound of the breeze sank to a low, droning whisper.
"My gracious!" cried Bob. "The fire-bell!"
For a second time, the ominous notes pealed forth, two coming close together, then, after a brief pause, seven in succession.
"Box twenty-seven! I wonder where it is."
The fire-alarm was seldom heard in the quiet little town of Kingswood, and the sound made his pulse quicken.
He hastily opened a door and made his way to an iron staircase which led to the tower. Up two steps at a time he bounded, until a small square room was reached. It had windows on all sides and commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country.
Bob Somers peered eagerly out at the icy winter scene. The limits of the snow-covered grounds of Pembroke Hall were defined by a row of electric lights on the highway. Beyond, several residences appeared faintly against the sky, but nearly all else was lost in gloom. Myriads of stars shone brilliantly.
A faint, hazy patch, as of smoke illuminated by an electric light, appeared above a dark line of trees.
"That must be the fire," murmured Bob, in some excitement. "Great Cæsar! It's near the schoolhouse."
Dashing down-stairs, he quickly donned his overcoat and hat.
"Fo' goodness' sakes, what am de matter?" inquired Peter Lexington, the colored boy, in astonishment.
"There's a fire, Peter! Can't stop to talk now."
"Fo' de lub of goodness! a fire?"
The surprising intelligence seemed to deprive Peter of all movement, and before he could utter another word, Bob was off.
In a moment, he had passed between the tall gate-posts at the entrance.
The air was sharp and keen. Great banks of snow, heaped up along the sides of the street, shone brightly in the glare of electric lights.
As Bob Somers neared the scene, he learned to his astonishment that the high school was on fire.
Kingswood, a wealthy community, had an excellent fire department. It was equipped with a ladder truck and an automobile fire-engine, the motor of which also operated the pumps.
The high school stood back from the street, surrounded by spacious grounds. In the centre of the three-story stone building rose a cupola of attractive design. About a hundred feet distant, the road was bridged over a large pond.
Bob Somers, breathing hard after his run, mingled with the excited groups in front of the school.
A cloud of whitish smoke partially obscured the building, its heaviest portion being toward the western end.
"It's getting away from them, sure," said a man close by. "If they don't hustle along that steamer from Rockville pretty soon the place is a goner."
Breaks in the curling wreaths of smoke revealed a ladder leaning against the wall and a line of hose entering the window above it. The shouts of the volunteers rose above the continuous roar of the Kingswood engine and the excited murmur of the crowd.
"That man is right," thought Bob, with a tremor of excitement; "I only wish something more could be done."
From the midst of the crowd, at a point some distance away, rose a peculiar shout, somewhat like the hooting of an owl.
Instantly Bob Somers threw back his head, and made a similar sound. This was a special signal often used by the Ramblers to call each other.
"Hello, Dave Brandon!" cried Bob, lustily.
"Hello yourself!"
In a moment the stout boy hurried forward.
"Isn't it awful, Bob, to see the old school going up like this?" he said.
"How did it start, Chubby?"
"Guess no one knows. Let's find the other fellows. Give a whoop, Bob!"
"Hello, Sam Randall!"
"Hello, Dick!"
"Hi, hi, Tom Clifton!"
In a few minutes, the Ramblers had managed to locate each other.
"Maybe we can save something yet," cried Bob. "Let's go into the grounds."
There was no railing, consequently they had free access, and the frozen crust presently began to crack sharply beneath their feet.
"Professor Hopkins is over there!" exclaimed Bob Somers. "He just came out of the door."
Bob darted between the groups of people, with the others close at his heels.
"Professor Hopkins!" he cried.
The principal, enveloped in a long coat, seemed almost overcome with emotion. He was staggering along under a load of books.
"Somers!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, sir! We're going to try and save something!"
"I am ruined!" gasped Professor Hopkins, apparently not hearing his words. "The fire is steadily gaining—my office is doomed."
"Come on, fellows!" shouted Bob.
The moment he reached the doorway, Professors Hughes and Ivins came out, each carrying an armful of books.
"Don't go in there!" shouted the former, warningly; "you'll be stifled."
"If the Rockville engine was only here, Professor Hopkins' office might be saved," exclaimed Professor Ivins.
"Boys!" cried Dave Brandon; "I've got an idea. We'll form a chain and get water from the pond."
"Splendid, Chubby! You've struck it!" broke in Bob, enthusiastically.
"There are plenty of people around who ought to help us," added Dick Travers; "it must be a double line—one to pass back the empty buckets."
The students turned toward the crowd.
"Who wants to join a bucket brigade?" yelled Dave Brandon.
"I do!" shouted one.
"Count me in," added another.
The crowd, as if ashamed of its former inactivity, became animated with life. Strangely enough, it had not occurred to any one before that some use might be made of the pond.
Dick Travers, Sam Randall and Tom Clifton, accompanied by several others, started off in search of buckets. An axe was procured—then the frozen surface of Deal's pond began to resound to the sturdy blows of the volunteers.
In the meantime Bob Somers and Dave Brandon had entered the building. Choking and sputtering, they reached the main corridor and saw bright tongues of flame mingling with the smoke.
From the floor above came excited shouts and the sound of axes chopping through rafters and beams.
Bob Somers and Dave Brandon did not care to tarry long. Their eyes ached and choking sensations gripped their throats.
"Unless the fellows hurry up, it will be too late," gasped Dave, as the two made their way out and stood upon the steps.
"Let's make a dash for the president's room, and get out some of his things," cried Bob Somers. "Come on, Dave Brandon!"
Both boys again disappeared in the smoke-laden atmosphere.