Dick strictly obeyed orders. He kept away from the river and contented himself with observing the progress of the crews through a pair of field-glasses from the study as long as the boats were down the river. When they passed up he went across the hall and called on Williams, always popping himself down on the window-seat and always remaining until the first or second boats had once more returned down stream. Williams informed him dryly that he was honored by his visits, but not greatly interested in his conversation, which consisted upon such occasions of monosyllabic replies, usually made with his head half a yard out the window. As far as not thinking of rowing was concerned, it was a downright impossibility; but he did try not to talk about it, and was assisted by Trevor.

“How’d it go to-day?” Dick would ask with elaborate carelessness.

“Don’t know,” Trevor would grunt.

“Do you think Milton did better?”

“Can’t say.”

“I noticed you rowed about thirty-four going up.”

“Did we?”

“Did you? Don’t you know you did? Don’t you know anything?” Dick would exclaim in disgust.

“Not on that subject, so shut up!”

The varsity and second crews had been picked and sent to training-table on the Monday following the visit to Taylor. The varsity went to “Mother” Burke’s, in the village, and the second had a nice, long table all to themselves in dining-hall. Dick’s chair at the head of the board was vacant as yet, by request of Kirk, who explained that if Dick was to keep his mind off rowing affairs the varsity training-table was no place for him. But that was a long week to Dick, and he yearned for Saturday to come, even though, as he acknowledged, the enforced leisure had already benefited him. His color was better, his appetite was coming back, and he slept a good nine hours every night. But nevertheless the inactivity was hard to bear, and he thought that never before had the days lagged so.

The captaincy was still his, for Taylor’s accident had afforded him a respite. The boy’s knee was in bad shape, Dick learned, and it would be all of a month before he could be fit to take his place in the boat, although it had been agreed between him and Kirk that he should report with the other members of the crew at practice as soon as he was able to get about; he could at least watch the others at work and keep up with the march of events. He had sent a note to Dick the day following his fall.

“Friend Hope,” he wrote, “I guess you had best let that matter wait until I’m out-of-doors again. This is beastly luck, but we must make the best of it. Of course you understand that I shall hold you to your promise, so perhaps you had better work around toward you know what; kind of pave the way, you know. Send me an answer by Waters or Hayden.”

And Dick had answered “All right.”

The evil day was simply postponed, but meanwhile he would go ahead and do what he could. Taylor’s agreement had already borne fruit in the shape of the acquisition to the varsity and second boats of Waters and two other oarsmen, all three seniors and experienced men. This had puzzled Kirk not a little, but he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so said nothing; merely set the new candidates to work and thanked his stars.

When Saturday came, and Dick’s period of voluntary probation came to an end, rowing affairs at Hillton looked far more promising. Waters was back at five in the varsity boat, and another of Taylor’s disciples, Whitman, had displaced the unfortunate Arnold at Number 2. Crocker went back to his place at six, and Dick once more found himself with his toes in the straps and the stroke oar in his hands, and was greatly comforted. He rowed in his old form that afternoon, and the rest of the crew seemed to gather confidence and tone from him. The new material, despite their lack of training during the first of the season, fitted well into their places, and the afternoon’s practice was, on the whole, decidedly encouraging.

The next morning Dick took his place at the head of the varsity training-table and ate his steak and baked potatoes and eggs with all the relish in the world, and would have been entirely happy had it not been for the knowledge that soon, another week at the most, he must yield his position. It was hard to have performed the difficult part, to have worked and planned ever since the preceding spring, to have worried through discouragements and toiled through the grinding monotony of the preliminary season, only to have to yield the honor to another when things had at length begun to look hopeful. Well, it might mean success in the race; and success was what he desired; only—well, he groaned when he pictured to himself the Crimson crew sweeping over the line ahead of St. Eustace, and realized that not he, but Roy Taylor, would come in for the glory that belonged to a victorious crew captain.

The next evening, Monday, Trevor brought up a copy of The Hilltonian for May, and Dick read aloud the article on the crew. After a summary of rowing at Hillton in former years, the article continued: “With fewer candidates to work with than in any year within memory, and with a lamentable lack of encouragement from the student body, Coach Kirk and Captain Hope have succeeded in forming a varsity and a second crew that compare favorably with any of recent years, and that are superior in most particulars to the eights of last spring. The return to the varsity squad of Taylor, S., and Whitman, S., is cause for congratulations, as both are excellent oarsmen and have had experience, Taylor in last year’s varsity boat, and Whitman in last year’s second. The varsity crew as at present made up is as follows: Captain Hope, Stroke; Jones, No. 7; Crocker, No. 6; Waters, No. 5; Nesbitt, No. 4; Milton, No. 3; Whitman, No. 2; Shield, Bow. Taylor will displace Jones at No. 7, it is expected, when he returns to work, which will probably be within the next fortnight.

“It is not surprising that Coach Kirk has selected these men to make up the varsity squad, as they are easily the best oarsmen among the candidates which presented themselves at the commencement of the season. Four of these men rowed in last year’s varsity, and of the balance two have had extensive experience in rowing. Coach Kirk says that the present selection is by no means final, and will be changed from time to time as he sees fit. Nevertheless, it is probable that the crew which will row against St. Eustace will be made up practically as above. Beginning next week Coach Kirk will take the men out two by two in a pair-oar, following the practice of last year. The varsity and second squads will have gone to their training-tables by the time this issue of The Hilltonian is published, and with that hard work may be said to have begun. Altogether, rowing affairs at Hillton are in an encouraging condition, and a victory pronounced enough to wipe out the stigma of last year’s defeat at the hands of our rivals may be confidently expected. The progress of the crews will be closely followed by The Hilltonian, and a criticism of the work of the members will appear in our next issue.”

“I wish I was as certain of that pronounced victory as he is,” said Dick as he laid the sheet aside.

“Who’s ‘he’?” asked Trevor.

“Singer, I guess; he thinks himself an authority on rowing affairs, though I doubt if he knows an outrigger from a thwart; but he’s a good fellow, all the same. Hello, what are you going to do with that?”

Trevor was balancing himself precariously on the head of the couch, and taking a tennis racket from a nail on the wall.

“Going to get busy with it. Stewart and I are to play a bit to-morrow. I rather fancy I’ll enter for the tournament in June. I finished rather well in the singles last spring, you know. Carter, a senior chap, beat me in the semi-finals, 6-4, 4-6, 6-3.”

“I never played the game but once,” answered Dick, “and then I nearly ran myself to death. It was lots harder than a mile on the track.”

“Yes, I know; a chap always runs too much when he doesn’t know the game. I like it. There isn’t much chance for golf this year, and so I fancy I’ll go in for tennis.”

“Well, good luck to you,” replied Dick, “only don’t twist your ankle or anything like that and have to give up rowing.”

“Don’t you worry,” answered his roommate. He had secured the racket and was examining the gut critically. “I fancy I’ll need a new one for the tournament,” he muttered. Securing an old ball he slammed it around the room for a while, until Dick, laying aside his book, arose in his wrath and took both ball and racket away from him. After that he walked disconsolately around the table for several minutes, and at length settled himself grudgingly to study. Dick had a hard lesson in German to master, and it was well on toward ten o’clock when he finally put down his books, yawned, and strolling to the window, pushed aside the curtains and peered out. Trevor was leisurely undressing in the bedroom when he heard Dick call to him excitedly.

“Fire, Trevor! Come look, quick!”

Trevor came, trailing his trousers after him by one leg, and leaned out beside his chum. Just to the right of Warren Hall, in the direction of the village, shone a ruddy glow, and even as they watched a tongue of flame made itself visible.

“Where is that?” asked Dick. “It’s too far that way to be the Eagle.”

“Perhaps it’s the Episcopal Church,” answered Trevor, excitedly. “Let’s go!” He struggled madly with his trousers.

“All right, hurry up,” said Dick. Then, “By Jove, Trevor, I’ll tell you what it is,” he called.

“What?” yelled Trevor from the bedroom.

“Why, Watson’s stables; they’re just about in that direction, and——”

“What!” screamed his chum. “Watson’s stables! Come on! Hurry!” He dashed toward the door, coatless, hatless, his vest half on.

“Wait for your coat, you idiot!” called Dick. But the other was clattering down the stairs, and so, seizing his own cap and Trevor’s, he followed. He caught up with Trevor half-way to the gate. “Here’s your cap,” he shouted.

“Oh, never mind that,” yelled Trevor. “Hurry up! Think of poor old Muggins!”

“By Jove!” muttered Dick. “I’d forgotten him!” And he raced after. As they left the grounds the bell in Academy Building began to ring the alarm, while from the village other bells had already begun their note of warning. The fire was hidden from their view now, but a rosy glare in the sky above the trees and intervening buildings told them that it still raged. Opposite the post-office they overtook a group of men. “Know where it is?” asked Trevor. But they didn’t, and the two boys sped on, soon leaving them behind. But when they turned to pass the Town Hall Trevor gave a cry of joy:

“It isn’t the stables! It isn’t the stables, Dick!” And he was right; the fire was beyond them and more to the left. “By Jove,” he went on, “I believe it’s the church after all, or else—— What’s beyond that?”

“Beyond the church?” panted Dick. “Why, I don’t know; nothing except Coolidge’s, I guess. Do you suppose it’s that?”

“Must be,” answered Trevor. And then they turned aside as the volunteer fire department, with a rabble of curious men and boys following, rattled by. And now they could see plainly the squat tower of the Episcopal Church standing out boldly against the yellow glare.

“It is Coolidge’s!” cried Dick and Trevor in a breath, and ran yet faster. When they reached the great, square boarding-house they found it surrounded by a crowd of persons, many of them Hillton boys who lived in the village. The frame building was burning merrily, and the flames had advanced to such a stage that it appeared doubtful if the firemen could do much. But two lines of hose were stretched and the pumps were manned, and the volunteer department attacked the enemy valiantly. The entire right corner of the house was ablaze from cellar to mansard roof, the flames having gained undisputed sway of the three big rooms there. The hall, as the boys could see from their position near the front gate, was black with smoke which poured out the open doorway in stifling volumes. Two men suddenly emerged from it, staggering under the weight of a long couch which they released to ready helpers in the yard. But when they started again for the doorway they were stopped by a man whom the two boys recognized as the town marshal.

“Can’t let you go in again, Mr. Coolidge,” they heard him say. “Too risky.” And he was deaf to the expostulations of the salvagers. As the firemen took the first hose into the house the flames for a moment lighted up the hall, throwing the narrow staircase into relief. The marshal pointed, and the two men apparently recognized the force of his objections, for they turned back and hurriedly set about getting the goods with which the yard was strewn into places of safety.

“I wonder how they got Taylor out with his sprained knee,” said Dick to Trevor.

“Carried him, I fancy. I wonder where he is.” One of the lads who had roomed in the doomed building, and who was watching the conflagration with sentiments divided between regret for his lost chattels and joy in the brilliant spectacle, caught Trevor’s eye. “I say, Simpson,” he called, “what did they do with Taylor?” But Simpson shook his head doubtfully.

“I don’t know; guess they took him across to Cupples’s. I didn’t see him at all.” A terrible fear gripped Dick’s heart. It showed in his face, for Trevor gasped and looked about at a loss.

“But they must have got him out, Dick,” he cried. “Wait, I’ll ask.” He darted toward the crowd in the yard. Dick followed. Mr. Coolidge, trembling with excitement and his recent exertions, stood mopping his forehead just inside the gate, and recounting for the fifth time the story of the fire’s origin. To him came Trevor.

“Taylor, sir?” he asked in tones that trembled despite that he told himself over and over that it was all right; that Taylor must surely have been rescued. “Roy Taylor, Mr. Coolidge? Did he—— Where was he taken, sir?”

“Taylor?” faltered the boarding-house keeper. “Why—I—I—— Who saw that Taylor boy?” he shouted, turning to the group about him. The chatter ceased, and a silence fell that chilled Trevor and Dick to the heart. None answered for a moment. At last:

“He got out, didn’t he, George?” shrieked a woman’s voice, shrill-toned and hysterical. “You know he got out, don’t you?”

But Coolidge only shook his head, his face growing ashen. “I—I don’t know! I asked the boys; they said every one was out; you were here, and Sarah, and——” A murmur of horror arose and grew. Dick, pale-faced and sick at heart, stared at the burning building. Suddenly in the street voices broke into exclamations of horror; there was a pushing here and there; Dick turned and heard a cry: “Where are the firemen? They can save him!” The next instant Carl Gray, white-faced and breathless, broke through the gate.

“There’s some one in that room back there! I saw a face at the window! I—it looked like Roy Taylor. Dick, is that you? What shall we do?” Carl seized him by the arms, staring miserably into his eyes, his hands trembling. For a moment Dick stared back at him. Then, throwing off his hands, he turned and without a word dashed toward the front door.

“Dick! Dick!” shrieked Trevor. “Come back, you fool!” He sped after his chum toward the house. “You can’t do it, Dick!” But Dick paid no heed; it is doubtful if he heard. Just before the porch stood the marshal with warning hand outstretched.

“Here, get back there! You can’t go in.” Dick tried to rush by, but the officer seized him and held him firmly. Trevor came up panting. Dick viewed the marshal with angry eyes.

“Let me go!” he said fiercely. “There’s a boy upstairs! He’ll be burned up, you fool!”

“A boy up there?” repeated the marshal doubtingly. “How do you know?” He eased his grip on Dick’s shoulder. Like a flash the latter shook off the hand, seized the astounded officer about the neck, and with a quick jerk sent him sprawling, face down, on the gravel path. “Tell them to put up ladders!” he shouted to Trevor, and with a bound was up the steps and had entered the doorway.

“Dick! Dick, come back!” shrieked Trevor. Through the murk of smoke the edge of the staircase was outlined in writhing flames, and for an instant Trevor caught sight of Dick half-way up it. With a sob Trevor leaped toward the porch. But a strong hand seized him and brought him tumbling back to the ground.

“One of you’ll do,” said the marshal’s voice in his ear. “No use in your both being burned up.”

“But he’ll be killed!” cried Trevor, striking out savagely at his captor. “Let me go, you—you brute! Can’t you understand? Dick will be killed!” But he was forced, struggling, gasping, sobbing, down the walk.

“Barnes!” bellowed the marshal’s voice, “there’s a boy up there. This youngster will tell you about it. Get your ladder quick!”