“Why don’t you cut clear from them? You have the making of a man in you--you are a man! It is a mistake for you to be associating with such a crowd.”
“Perhaps you are right. I never thought much about that, but I shall think of it in the future. You have made me ashamed of myself to-night, Frank Merriwell; and I believe I shall turn over a new leaf.”
“I hope you will. If you ever need a friend, come to me. All you will have to do is to mention this time.”
Two nights after the events just related, Frank had taken his evening walk and was returning to the old place, which he was leaving forever on the morrow, as it was already sold, and the writings had been made.
The cry reached his ears from a distance.
The cry of fire at night has a weird, peculiar sound, once heard never forgotten.
Frank started from the spell that had been on him. He threw up his head and listened.
Again the cry reached his ears. It came from a distant part of the village.
Quick as thought he whirled about and ran in that direction.
In the city the alarm is sometimes heard, but, more frequently, the first knowledge of the fire comes from the sight of the engine as it goes dashing to the rescue.
In small country places the wild cry of fire is almost always the first alarm.
Frank knew this. He had lived in cities where the sound of the clanging gong of a fire engine scarcely awakened passing notice; but now he was in a small country town, and it was different.
He had not exerted himself to the utmost for some time, and, with something like a feeling of exultation at the opportunity, he sped along the road.
The cry sounded nearer. He was in the border of the village, and he thought he saw a red glow ahead and to the right. He turned a corner and sped onward.
Soon he came upon others who were running in the same direction. And then, after a little, he located the red glow beyond a doubt.
Lights were flashing in the windows of the houses, showing that the inhabitants had been awakened and were rising hastily.
“Where is it?” asked a man who dashed out from one of the houses.
“Don’t know,” Merry answered, and sped onward.
“It must be Rufus Gray’s house!” shouted a man who was running and puffing along the street.
Frank said nothing, but passed him like the wind.