The people of Claster had arranged for a Fourth of July celebration, and early in the morning folks began to pour in from the surrounding farms until the place took on the liveliness of a fair-sized city.

Knowing that some folks would take the opportunity to order or buy supplies, Frank kept the store open until noon and did quite a fair business. When he closed up he had twenty-six dollars on hand, which he took home for safe keeping.

There was a short parade in the afternoon and all of the young folks went to see this. Little Georgie was particularly enthusiastic and wanted to follow the brass band all over the line of march.

“I’d like Fourth of July to come every day,” he told his brother and sister.

“I fancy you’d get tired of it soon enough,” said Ruth.

“I’d never get tired of it,” answered the little fellow, positively. “When I grow up I want to be a drummer in the band.”

“Do you think you want to carry around the bass-drum, Georgie?” questioned Frank, with a smile.

“No, I want the little drum—the one that rattles and has two little sticks,” returned Georgie.

The town people had collected almost a hundred dollars which a committee had expended in fireworks. These were to be set off at the public square, only a short distance from Mr. Hardy’s store. At the appointed time the square was crowded, and the display of fireworks was begun amid great enthusiasm.

“I love those rockets and Roman candles,” said Ruth, enthusiastically.

“And I like the big pin-wheels,” answered Frank.

With Georgie they had taken a place in front of the store. But they could not see extra well, on account of a wagon being in the way, and so moved on to another part of the square.

A flight of rockets was followed by some colored fire and a very handsome set piece. Then came triangles and flower pots, and another set piece, and then some of the largest rockets the committee had purchased. The latter went up with a rush and a roar that made Ruth shrink back in momentary alarm.

“I don’t like that—it looks dangerous,” said she.

“It is not as dangerous as it is for those boys to be running around with blazing brushwood,” answered her brother. “The constable ought to stop them. They may set something or somebody on fire.”

“Wouldn’t one of those rockets set something on fire if it came down while it was still burning, Frank?”

“To be sure. We haven’t had rain in so long all the roofs around here are pretty dry.”

For the end of the celebration there was a set piece of the President of the United States, and as this lit up there was a wild cheering and hurrahing, which was changed to a sudden cry of alarm as a man yelled “Fire!” at the top of his lungs.

“Fire? Where is the fire?” asked several.

“He means the fireworks,” said one onlooker, and several laughed at the joke.

“Fire! fire!” continued the other man. “The feed store is on fire!”

“The feed store?” repeated Frank, with a start. “Can he mean our place?”

“He does!” shrieked Ruth. “See, the smoke is coming out of the upper window!”

“It is our place, true enough!” groaned Frank. “Here, Ruth, take care of Georgie. Don’t you come over to the fire.”

“Oh, what are you going to do, Frank? Don’t go into the place, please! You’ll be burnt up!”

“I’ll take care of myself. Now, keep back as I told you.”

Thus speaking Frank darted into the crowd and made his way to the front of the store, which was located in a small two-story frame structure, having a flat roof. The upper floor was filled with feed and grain, and through the front window the flames could readily be seen. As Frank drew closer there was a crash of glass, and then the flames shot out of the window, and began to lap the roof.

“Don’t go in there, Frank!” cried several. “The place is a goner. You can’t save anything.”

“I’m going to save the papers,” answered our hero, determinedly. “Why don’t you call out the fire department?”

“Bill Wilson did that already.”

Unlocking the front door, Frank made his way inside. All was dark and filled with smoke. He felt his way to his father’s safe and desk. Soon he had some papers from the desk in his pocket, and then he knelt down to open the safe.

The strong box had a combination lock, and as yet Frank was hardly accustomed to it. In his excitement it was not easy to remember the proper numbers, and the first time he tried the knob the safe refused to come open. Then he tried to work the combination again.

By this time the entire lower floor of the building was thick with smoke, and the flames were already beginning to show themselves in the vicinity of the back stairway. Frank’s eyes were swimming in tears, and it was all he could do to get his breath.

“I certainly can’t stand this any longer,” he thought, and gave the knob of the safe a final turn. Then the door came open and he pulled out the account books and some private papers in all haste. He had heard his father say that the safe was worn out, and in no condition to stand the test of a hot fire.

Scarcely able to stand, Frank felt his way toward the front door. The entire back and upper part of the building were now ablaze and he could plainly hear the crackling of the flames above him.

“Frank Hardy, where are you?” called a voice through the smoke.

Frank did not answer, but staggered toward the sound, for the smoke was so thick he could not see where he was going. Then, just as he felt he must drop, he received a dash of water in the face, thrown by a member of the local bucket brigade, for as yet the town boasted of nothing better than one engine and a company of men, who possessed sixty leather fire buckets.

The water did much toward reviving our hero and in a second more he almost fell through the front door and out on the stoop of the store. As he came into view a shout went up.

“There he is!”

“He has had a narrow escape!”

“Did he get burnt?”

“No, he is all right.”

Assisted by willing hands, Frank made his way to a bench in the public square. Close at hand was a town pump, where men and boys were filling the leather buckets. Down the square was the hand engine, drawing water from a nearby cistern. As weak as he was our hero had brought his books and papers with him, and these he now placed at his side.

“Oh, Frank, are you hurt?” It was Ruth who asked the question, as she came up with little Georgie.

“No, I’m all right,” Frank answered. “But I guess I’m pretty well smoked,” he added, coughing and wiping his eyes.

“You should not have gone in such a place.”

“I wanted to save father’s books and papers. The desk will be burnt, I know, and the old safe isn’t of any account.”

“Do you think they’ll put the fire out?”

“It doesn’t look like it now.”

“It must have been set on fire by the fireworks,” went on Ruth.

“More than likely.”

The firemen were working with a will, and before long Frank started in to aid them, telling Ruth and Georgie to take the books and papers home.

“Tell mother not to worry about me—that I’ll keep out of danger,” said our hero.

He had scarcely spoken when Mrs. Hardy rushed up, all out of breath and with her face full of fear.

“They told me you had gone into the store,” she gasped. “Are you unharmed?”

“Yes, I’m all right, mother.”

“Thank Heaven for that!”

“Here are father’s papers and account books. I’m afraid the whole place is doomed.”

“Yes, it looks like it—and the next place, too,” answered Mrs. Hardy.

She remained at the fire for only a few minutes and then returned home, to tell her husband that Frank was safe. Georgie went with her, but Ruth stayed to see the end of the conflagration.

It was a full hour before the fire was under control. By that time not only the feed store was gone, but also the butcher shop next door, and a barn in the rear. Yet many felt that the firemen had done well to save the surrounding property, considering how dry everything was and what a breeze was blowing.

“That’s the end of the feed business,” thought Frank. “I hope father is insured. If he isn’t, the loss will be a heavy one for him—especially after this Garrison disaster.”