FIRE! When Tom Thatcher heard the bells ringing, and the ominous cry of “Fire!” rang with startling distinctness through the streets of the village, he sprang from his bed and hurried on his clothes.

“Where are you going, Tom?” asked his mother, as she saw him pass her chamber door.

“To the fire, mother.”

“But it is past midnight.”

“I’ll be home soon, mother.”

“Don’t go too near, Tom.”

“No, I won’t.”

And Tom hurried out of the little cottage, and joined those who were hastening to the scene of the midnight fire.

For boys in their teens, and for some beyond that period, fires have an irresistible fascination. This is especially true in a village, where such occasions are uncommon, and where, as all are acquainted, the loss will come upon a friend or neighbor.

“Where is the fire?” asked Tom, of the first man he met.

“At Squire Simpson’s.”

“Not his house?” asked Tom, excited.

“No, it’s the old barn at the back of his house.”

“I wonder how it could have caught fire?” thought Tom, but as no answer suggested itself, he hurried on to the fire.

It was enveloped in a blaze when he came up, and surrounded by a group of men and boys, some in their shirt-sleeves, though it was a December night. The fire-engine was on the ground, but the firemen were inactive, for it was clear that nothing could be done to arrest the flames.

Prominent among those present was the rather portly form of John Simpson, bareheaded, and clad in a showy dressing-gown, the same he had worn in his interview with Tom and Darius Darke only a few hours earlier.

Mr. Simpson seemed excited and nervous, but that certainly was not surprising, considering that the fire was on his own premises, and might as well have involved his dwelling-house.

“Well, squire,” said Newell Ingalls, a near neighbor, “the old barn will have to go.”

“Yes, sir, there’s no doubt about that.”

“Is there any insurance?”

“No; but the building was worth very little. There might have been two or three tons of hay inside.”

“Have you any suspicion as to how it caught fire? It seems rather queer it should have caught of itself.”

“I am afraid I can explain the matter, Mr. Ingalls,” said Squire Simpson, raising his voice a little, as if he desired the crowd to hear what he was about to say.

Naturally his neighbors gathered a little more closely about him, induced by curiosity. “This evening,” said the squire, “I had a call from a man whom I knew slightly some years since in California. I didn’t remember him at first, but he managed to recall himself to my recollection. The poor fellow had been unlucky. He was miserably dressed, and appeared like a tramp. I gave him something in memory of old times, and at his request I allowed him to pass the night in the old barn. I didn’t think to caution him against smoking. I have no doubt he lighted his pipe, and somehow the fire was communicated to the hay on which he was probably lying. That probably accounts for the fire.”

“Then the man must have been burned in the fire!” exclaimed Ingalls, with an expression of horror.

“I am very much afraid of it,” said Mr. Simpson, with a nervous shudder.

“Poor fellow! It’s lucky you did not put him in the stable.”

“Indeed it is, for in that case the fire would inevitably have spread to the house, which would probably now be in ashes.”

“How happened it that you did not let him sleep in the stable?” asked Reuben Hunting.

“I was about to do so,” answered the squire, “when, for some reason which I cannot explain, I changed my mind and led him out to this old barn.”

“Did the thought of fire occur to you?” asked Hunting.

“I don’t think it did. It was a providential thought, as it seems to me now.”

“What was the man’s name?” inquired George Ingalls. “I can’t at this moment recall it. My acquaintance with the man was very slight, and I never knew him very well.”

It may be imagined with what feelings Tom listened to this conversation. He knew very well who this unhappy man was who had perished in the flames. That is he knew him by the name he had mentioned.

Our hero shuddered, and a feeling of awe crept into his mind, as he reflected that within a few hours he had talked with Darius Darke, to whom the gates of a terrible death had now opened.

He stood there, silent and grave, when, unexpectedly, public attention was turned to him.

“This man was seen by at least one who is now present,” continued the squire. “He told me that he had inquired the way to my house of Thomas Thatcher.”

“Did you see him, Tom?” asked a dozen voices at once.

“Yes,” answered Tom. “I talked with him from ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

“He gave me a name, but he as much as said that it wasn’t his real name.”

“What name was it?” asked several, eagerly.

“Darius Darke.”

“That’s a queer name. Is it his real name, squire?”

“I don’t think it is. I know very little of him or his career. He may have had reasons for using a false name.”

“Very likely.” “If he was burnt in the fire, squire, you’ll be likely to find his bones among the ashes,” suggested Newell Ingalls.

“I hope not. I hope he had time to escape,” said the squire. “However, it will be well to look in the morning.”

By this time the barn was completely consumed, and the embers alone remained.

“Friends and neighbors,” said Squire Simpson, “it is all over, and there seems to be no danger of the fire spreading. I won’t keep you any longer out of your beds. I thank you heartily for your kindly coming to my help, and I will on a future occasion express my acknowledgments in a suitable manner.”

The crowd dispersed, the engine was returned to the engine-house, and John Simpson sought his chamber.

He looked into the mirror, and hardly knew the image reflected there, so pale and bloodless were his cheeks.

“I look badly,” he said, to himself, “but it will pass off. As to that man, the world is well rid of him, and so am I. He should not have tried to blackmail me. I never should have got rid of him if——”

He did not finish the sentence, but with a nervous shudder sought his bed. He slept at last, but it was a troubled sleep, that gave him no refreshment.