The encounter between Chip and Jimmy on the ice that afternoon was the talk of the whole school at the supper table, and when the two boys concerned passed near each other on the way out the onlookers stepped aside fearful that something might take place there and then, but nothing happened.

In general the school sympathized with the Freshman, but Dixon wielded so much influence in the school and bullied it so unmercifully that there was not much public expression of opinion. A good many thought that if it came to a matter of collision between them with a fair field that Jimmy would be Dixon's match, for they had seen the former play football, and although he was not as big as Dixon they knew how sturdy he was, and how determined he would probably be in a fight.

Jimmy, although he knew in his heart that the matter would have to be settled between them before his school life was over, was very docile, and when Frank said that evening: "Jimmy, I don't want you to get into any scraps about me. I'd much rather take another cut eye from Chip, although I don't relish it a bit, than to have you get into trouble or get scrapping with anyone on my account. I wanted to go for Dixon myself this afternoon, but you know what the school rules are about it—suspension or possible dismissal."

"All right, boss," said Jimmy. "I'll behave, but the big chump made me mad, first taking our rink and second smashing into you when your back was turned. You'll have to admit that he got what he deserved. I noticed that his eye was good and black where he came in contact with the ice when I tripped him that time he rushed me."

"Just like mine," said Frank, laughing. Frank's eye, too, had a fine, dark tint underneath, and with a piece of sticking plaster over his eyebrow, he looked anything but attractive.

"Anyone to see you, Frank, would think you had been playing football," observed David, "but it might have been worse."

"Yes," returned Frank, "it might have been both eyes."

"It's a better combination," laughed David, "to have one blue one and one black one; kind of gives variety to your features."

There was a knock at the door, and the Wee One strolled into the room.

"Hello, pugilists," he said to Frank and Jimmy. "Understand you are both matched for the heavyweight class. Can't I come in on the scrapping somewhere?"

"You aren't even in the featherweight class," said Gleason.

"What would you call me then?"

"O, I think about the postage-stamp class."

"Well," retorted the Wee One, "I'd be a good postage stamp, for I don't remember that I've been licked yet."

"Old, very old," said Gleason. "I think I have the record of that here," and he pretended to search through his notebook. "Yes, here it is—'postage-stamp joke, first to be taken in out of the wet by Noah's secretary, who had the job of collecting all the old jokes. Said to have first been uttered by Adam.'"

"Well, it's a good easy joke to understand; it isn't like the ones you get off, Gleason. Yours need a chart with them," retorted the Wee One.

"We're going to have some big doings at the rink to-morrow afternoon, will you come down and referee, Patty?" said Frank.

"Sure I'll come, and I'm the dandy little referee. Refereed for years at the St. Nicholas Rink. Yale, Princeton and Harvard cried for me, and once I was in the hospital, and they wouldn't play the game."

"It's a fine thing to have a reputation," said Jimmy.

"Much better to have an imagination like the Wee One's, though," said David.

"What are the doings?" inquired the referee. "Are you going to take on Chip's bunch?"

"Not on the picture of the Sacred Cow. We are going to play with gentlemen—that is, we are going to have a game with ourselves. Since there will be no more scrapping you will be safe. We will promise not to speak even an unkind word to you," said Frank.

"And I'll be down to keep the record of all the perfectly lovely tallies," said Gleason.

"You will not need to bring a large book. Lewis is goal-tender, and he's so fat that the only way to score is to throw the puck right through him, and he's so thick that that is about impossible."

After more chaff and banter the Wee One got up.

"I must be going," he said. "I'm tired as a whole family of dogs, and I'm going to sleep without bothering my head about that algebra which comes to-morrow morning. If you hear any loud sounds pretty soon you'll not be alarmed, but know that it's your happy referee preparing for to-morrow's fracas. My room-mate's home for a few days, so I'll have the place all to myself. Good night."

"Good night," echoed the boys. Jimmy took his departure a few minutes later, and Frank, being tired from the exercise of the afternoon, turned in. David followed as he always followed Frank in everything. Gleason sat pegging away at some obstreperous lesson, and then he, too, with a prodigious yawn, slammed his book shut, and went to his own chamber. Darkness settled upon the old dormitory, and the boys slept.

Frank was dreaming that he was in the middle of a most exciting hockey game. The puck was flying hither and thither, and the spectators were yelling like mad. Suddenly he woke to the realization that there was a yelling, but that it came from the outside, and not from the dream spectators. He sat up in bed and listened. There was a clattering in the entry, a confused sound of voices outside, and then the chapel bell began to ring wildly. What did it all mean? David was also awake now and staring. Suddenly through all the noise outside rose the clear cry:

"Fire! fire! fire!" The terrible cry in the middle of the night brought Frank out of bed standing. He pulled David to his feet, helped him on with a few scanty clothes, and was picking up more clothes, when one of the teachers burst into the room.

"Warren is on fire," he yelled; "hurry up. Fire in the next entry."

Frank and David lost no time in getting down to the ground where they found half of the school already assembled, watching the smoke rolling from the entry windows. No one knew how the fire had started, but the night watchman of the school on making his rounds had smelled smoke, and on investigation located it in the first entry. Quick action by the watchman had raised the alarm, and the boys all over the dormitory were flying from their beds as Frank and David and Gleason had flown. They gathered outside to watch the progress of the flames.

There was a hasty count of noses by Mr. Parks. "Thank heaven, they are all out!" he exclaimed. And it was well, for the smoke was now beginning to roll threateningly from the upper windows of the entry, and now and then a little glint of flames showed where the fire was gaining headway. Across the yard came rattling the volunteer fire apparatus manned by some of the bigger boys and the teachers. Queen's had always boasted a fire department, but there never had been a real test of it, and now that the test had come they seemed terribly slow in getting the hose attached to the hydrant which was fed from the reservoir upon the hill.

All of a sudden, Frank began to look for the Wee One. A terrible thought came to him that he might still be in his room. "Where is Patterson?" he cried frantically, hoping to hear an answer from the Wee One from some safe position on the ground, but there was no answer. It was with a white face that he turned to Mr. Parks, and said: "Patterson must be in his room; he's not down here."

"He couldn't sleep through all this noise, surely not," said Mr. Parks.

"He was in my room last night, and said he was very tired and would sleep sound. O, he must be there and we must save him." He rushed to the doorway up which some of the volunteers were trying to carry the hose, but he was forced back by a dense cloud of black smoke which whirled down the stairway. The stairway was evidently on fire somewhere up above.

"Come round to the end of Warren," yelled Frank. "One of Patterson's bedroom windows is on the end of the building." A score of boys, hearing his words, tore around to the end of the building, but the Wee One's room was dark.

Frank turned his gaze on the ground, and good fortune favored him when he saw a lump of frozen turf which lay by the edge of the walk. He picked it up, and with a throw as accurate as if he were sending a ball over the plate, he sent the lump of earth smashing through Patterson's bedroom window. The signal was effective. In a moment a white-clad figure appeared at the window.

"What's the matter?" it yelled. "What are you throwing rocks through my window for?" The tone was highly indignant.

"The dormitory is afire," yelled the voices below. The white-robed figure left the bedroom window only to return in a moment.

"The study is full of smoke," shouted the Wee One from his lofty position. "Someone get a ladder. I'll have to come down this way." He was hanging over the window sill, and leaning far out so he could make his voice heard. "It's getting mighty hot here; the fire seems to be in the entry outside my door, but I've got my door between the bedroom here and the study shut. Won't some one hurry with a ladder?"

"Hurray, here comes the ladder," the crowd shouted as two fellows came running with the ladder on their shoulders. All hands gave assistance to planting the ladder firmly, and swung it end up toward the window. The Wee One had slipped up the lower sash, and was climbing out on the narrow ledge, making ready to escape.

"It is too short," cried the crowd below in horror. It was true! The top of the ladder did not reach the ledge, where the Wee One maintained with difficulty his slender footing, by at least five feet.

"Lift it up," cried some one, and a dozen eager hands seized the ladder and pushed its end closer to Patterson, who began to kneel down so that he could put his feet on the top round when it reached him; but just as he was feeling for it the ladder, held on its foundation of insecure human muscle, swayed, slipped, and went crashing to the ground where one of its sides snapped like a pipe-stem.

When the spectators saw what had happened, a murmur of horror passed their lips. There seemed nothing now but death for the boy who clung desperately to the window thirty feet above them. There was no other ladder, and apparently no human help. By this time the fire had eaten a hole in the roof, and was shooting merrily through, lighting the whole place up with a bright glare. Evidently, too, it had eaten through the door of Patterson's study, for little puffs of smoke began to appear at the end windows of the study, and a glare filled the room.

The Wee One begged piteously for help, and then, turning, looked into the room he had just left. Then he turned his face to the ground, and made a movement as if to jump.

"Don't jump, don't jump, don't jump!" yelled the crowd in chorus. "Here's a rope for you." Mr. Parks now appeared with a coil of stout rope and threw it with all his might at the window. It didn't quite carry up to it. Frantically he snatched it up again and threw. This time the unwinding end dropped across the window sill, hung a moment and slipped back before Patterson could grasp it. Mr. Parks tried again, but this time failed to get the rope near the window.

"Let me have it," said a calm voice at his elbow. "Let me try." It was David. All looked at him in open-mouthed astonishment. "I can't throw it, I'll carry it."

"How?"

David pointed to the great woodbine vine which, with its stout stem, crept over the whole end of the building. It had been planted many years before. Unmolested its tendrils had shot their way into the crevices between the bricks, making a kind of lattice work. "There's a chance," he said, "and I'll try. It's the only way to save him. Quick, tie the rope around me and help me to the wall."

Willing fingers knotted the rope around his waist, and bore him to the wall, the crutches dropping from his hands. They pushed him up the wall as far as they could, and then let go. Up that mat of woodbine vine David went like a monkey, the tail of rope dangling out behind. Where the growth was large he seemed to have no difficulty, but as he advanced there was less grip for his hands, and once he stopped ten feet below the window where the Wee One was hanging.

"He can't make it, he can't make it," moaned the crowd.

But the little hero is only momentarily balked. Holding his weight with one hand, he tears loose a section of the vine to get a better grip, drives his bleeding fingers in between the vine and the bricks, and goes on. Now he is only a few feet below the ledge. Now he has reached it, thrown a hand over it, and climbed onto it. The crowd below are as still as death, but David works with a coolness worthy of the trained fireman. They can even see him smile a little at the Wee One, evidently encouraging him. Then he has slipped into the room, made a hitch securely to the bed leg, which is near the window, and handed the Wee One the rope.

There is not a whisper as the Wee One takes it, gets a coil of the rope around his arm and another around his leg, and begins to slide. Below someone is holding the rope out from the wall so he will not tear himself on the bricks and vines, and almost before it is realized he is standing on the ground beside them, safe and sound, excepting a few bruises where he came in too close contact with the wall.

And now over the window ledge slides David. He is at home on a rope, thanks to his practice in the gymnasium, and it is but a small trick for him to slip down its length. And what a cheer bursts from the crowd as he is grasped in the arms of his friends! He is carried bodily, like a baby, by half a dozen fellows to one of the Senior apartments over in Honeywell Hall, where the Wee One has already been taken, and the school, forgetting the fire in the wonderful act of bravery, follows at his heels, shouting his name.

In an hour it was all over. The volunteers forced their way up the stairs, got to the fire which had originated in the air shaft, and succeeded in dampening it with water and chemicals so thoroughly that it was soon under control. Patterson's room was pretty badly burned out, and the roof at that point was burned off. But no lives were lost, thanks to David.