one o’clock in a morning of the last of may, and the miller household, all unconscious of disaster, was soundly slumbering. then in amidst ned’s dreams crept a dull series of noises, which became a persistent pounding. ned imagined that he had dived under his scull-boat, and that the other boys were hammering upon the hull, outside, to bother him. he struggled to escape, but somehow he seemed unable to get to the top again. this is the way with dreams.

mr. miller, too, heard a pounding; only, he awakened enough to know that it was a real pounding, upon the front door, and was no dream.

he sprang from bed, and sticking his head out of the window over the porch called:

“what’s the matter down there?”

“are you folks all dead?” called back a man. “get up! your barn’s afire!”

and mr. miller suddenly saw that the night around-about was strangely lighted.

ned was still striving to escape from under the scull-boat, when he was brought to the surface in a flash by his father’s commanding voice:

“ned! ned! the barn’s on fire!”

“oh, dear!” wailed ned, striking the floor in a heap.

“keep cool, ned,” encouraged his father. “and dress as fast as you can.”

trying to force his eyes open, and collect his senses, ned fumbled for his clothes. now the night in his room was turned to day by a glare of red light, and he could see flames reflected in the mirror of his bureau. in through the window floated a sharp crackling.

“oh, dear!” he groaned, again, his too-eager hands making sad work of his dressing.

he heard his mother’s exclamations of alarm, and his father’s replies to calm her; and without, echoed the feet of running men, the cries: “fire! fire! fire!” and the doleful rise and fall of the water-works whistle.

his father rushed heavily down the front stairs, and the door slammed behind him.

ned, his clothing only half fixed, instantly followed. as he flew through the back hall he glimpsed maggie, wringing her hands, quite beside herself with grief and fright.

“oh, neddie!” said his mother, whom he passed at the head of the stairs, her hands filled with valuables.

he did not reply, but dashed down, and out of the back door.

the whole west end of the barn, joining the wood-shed, was blazing. his father was already attacking the sliding carriage-door (fastened from within), with an ax, while a little group of spectators, anxious to help, stood about him.

“where’s the key to this?” demanded a man, who was tugging at the padlock of the smaller single door.

“under the step—i’ll find it!” gasped ned, stooping and groping in front of the sill.

the key had slipped into a crack, but he drew it out, and put it to the padlock.

“bob! here, bob! here, bob!” opening the door, he shouted, up the loft stairs just before him.

at his words the flames and smoke sucked down upon him, nearly stifling him.

“bob! here, bob! here, bob!” he hallooed again.

but no bob. with a sob in his throat ned sprang across the threshold, only to be seized from behind and dragged back, while the flames, disappointed, licked after him into the outer air.

“you little fool—are you trying to kill yourself?” roughly asked the man, holding him tight.

“but my dog’s in there!” cried ned, straining to break away. “here, bob! here, bob!” he called.

“he’s a goner, then,” declared the man. “don’t you see? the whole loft’s ablaze!”

“y-y-yes, i see,” quavered ned, growing limp with a sense of the awful thing that had happened. oh, bob, bob, bob!

he ceased his efforts to be free, and the man released him.

in the meantime mr. miller’s blows had splintered a hole so that he was enabled to reach in and lift the hook. the sliding door crashed open, and in through the smoke he dashed, seized the buggy by the rear axles, and dragged it into the yard. its varnish was blistering from the heat.

time for rescuing anything else was not given. in a fierce tide a torrent of blaze from the burning hay above poured out between the warping boards, and bending inward with the draft filled the doorway. through the barn, top to bottom, ravaged the fire-giant with his flaming sword.

still the water-works whistle was tooting and yodling, but not a hose cart had arrived. the crowd was growing rapidly, for the fire, fed by a ton of hay, and a quantity of grain, was lighting up the vicinity for blocks. there was a constant volley of queries about the hose-companies, and a constant gazing down street for some sign of their coming; mr. miller was in despair; but no cart was yet on hand.

the kitchen gable was beginning to smoke. ned hurriedly coupled the garden hose to the faucet set in the foundation of the house, and turned the nozzle upon the scorching paint. the stream appeared ridiculously small, and was bent and shattered by the storm of inrushing air.

mr. miller crawled through a second-story window above the kitchen roof, and hung a coverlet, hastily jerked from a bed and soaked with water, over the gable where the heat seemed worst. a line of men was formed from the pump and from the kitchen sink, up the back stairs, and passed buckets of water out to him. these he emptied over the coverlet, and here and there over the shingles.

below, inside, were maggie and mrs. miller, the one naturally as strong as any man, the other nerved, by the crisis, to unusual strength, standing at the faucets of the sink and filling pails, pitchers, wash pans, anything that might serve to supply the line of men.

outside, with the fire baking him, behind, and the spray from the nozzle drenching him, in front, ned valiantly plied his stream. on a sudden it died away to a mere trickle. the hose, under the increased pressure put on by the water-works, had burst.

ned dropped the nozzle. at the same instant a chorus of shouts arose, and a score of hands were upstretched, pointing at a spot where, eight feet above the kitchen roof, under the exposed gable-peak of the main portion of the house a flicker of flame was licking along.

mr. miller, bareheaded, his eyebrows and hair singed by the waves of heat, from his position upon the sloping roof of the kitchen, heard the cries of warning, and saw the blaze which had passed his defenses, and was in his rear. but in vain he dashed water at it. protected as it was by the overhanging eaves, and occupying a place awkward for him to reach, it resisted all his efforts.

“climb up with a rope!” yelled some voices.

“get a ladder! a ladder’s the thing!” yelled others.

but nobody seemed able to find rope or ladder, and the flame continued to grow.

ned shot through the kitchen and up the front stairs. he bolted into his room—it was hot as a furnace, poor little room!—and snatching his ball of trot-line from the drawer where it had lain nearly a year, bolted out again. he scrambled through the open window of mr. and mrs. miller’s bedchamber, and running along the roof of the front porch shinned up the water-spout and was upon the house-top. he scaled the steep slant, and now, balanced astride the peak, shuffled toward the farther end. the crowd saw him, and cheered.

in a moment his astonished father beheld him perched on the burning gable.

“ned! go down,” exclaimed mr. miller.

ned wasted no time in arguing.

“tie a bucket or something on this,” he called, lowering his trot-line as he unwound it.

mr. miller grabbed a small tin pail which was just being passed out to him, and fastened it to the dangling cord. with the water splashing from it ned hauled it up, and the crowd of spectators watched, breathless.

all he could do was to lean over as far as he dared and dash its contents up under the eaves; a groan from the watchers told him that he had done no good. although attacked from above and below, the tiny blaze lived on.

the fire had spread from the miller barn westward, and by means of the on-stretching sheds was eating its way, rod by rod. the millers’ next door neighbors, on the west, were battling stoutly, with garden hose and buckets, and the structures across the alley had caught.

these were low sheds, and not barns, so that the houses were not apt to catch. the miller house was the only one that seemed doomed. try as they might, neither ned nor his father nor other eager helpers could put out that steady flame under the eaves; and now the kitchen eaves, also, were smoking and smouldering in a dozen places. the kitchen roof was getting so slippery that mr. miller could hardly move about on it.

“clang! clang! clang!” the approach of succor faintly fell on ned’s ears. the hose-carts, at last!

“the hose-carts! they’re coming now!” he shouted to his father.

“the hose-carts! there come the hose-carts!” murmured the crowd in swiftly increasing tones.

“hurrah!” cheered ned, scrambling back over the roof to the porch.

“thank god!” sighed mr. miller; and then he could not refrain from adding, as he had a right to do, the mild criticism: “and it’s about time they came, too.”

indeed it was. down the dark street, shaded by the trees, appeared four spots of light. “clang! clang! clang!” louder sounded the gongs—never a more welcome sound. with tramp of feet and hoarse shouts up raced the rival carts of the pole star and defiance companies, drawn by their volunteers, and unreeling their hose as they came.

with a crash and a shower of sparks the loft of the barn fell in, but there still was plenty of work for the two floods that presently gushed from the fire nozzles. mr. miller hastily ducked through the window, and above his head spattered a heavy stream before which the impudent blaze beneath the main gable was blotted from existence. a driving deluge swept against the kitchen, and all those little flames that had been taxing the bucket brigade vanished in a twinkling.

the house was saved; but seldom house had more narrow escape!

ned, climbing in again from the porch, had proceeded to do something that long had been on his mind. his loaded shotgun cartridges! supposing the house should burn and they should explode and injure people! he had a vague notion that he would be liable to arrest for having kept powder around. besides, he did not want anybody to be hurt. so he groped his way into the attic, and piling the shells in his arms carried them down and laid them under the front steps. then he breathed easier.

he found that his care had been needless. the house was out of danger, and already the fire, in its march from shed to shed, had been met by the nozzle-men and stayed in its tracks. two streams were playing on the barn, their water hissing among the red-hot embers. other hose companies had arrived, and under the efforts the glare of a few moments before had sunk to a fitful glimmer.

mrs. miller and maggie turned from their labors at the sink to the gasoline stove and made a huge bucket of coffee. this they served to the chilled, tired members of the bucket brigade, who were wet with perspiration as well as with splashes from the pails.

ned now found time to recognize in the throng of helpers and onlookers people from far and near. the whole town was there—and had come, as the funny costumes proved, in a great hurry.

hal and tom appeared in breathless haste, and sought him out, and condoled with him.

“it’s too bad, ned,” said hal. “but i don’t believe that even if the hose companies had got here sooner they could have saved the barn. that hay made an awful blaze.”

“why didn’t they come sooner?” demanded ned.

“why, they had the wrong signal,” explained tom. “they went ’way off in north beaufort, and then they saw the flames and turned ’round.”

“didn’t you save a thing?” asked hal.

“just the buggy,” answered ned, with a gulp as heart-sickness rose in his throat.

“oh, pshaw!” exclaimed the two boys, their tones expressing much more of sympathy than the mere words tell. ned walked away, and they kindly let him alone.

by twos and threes the crowd thinned out. there was nothing now to see. gradually, as the need for their streams ceased, the lines of hose were wound on their reels.

darkness settled over the scene.

before going to bed again the millers had much to do. while they themselves, with other fire-fighters, had been busy in the rear of the house, a swarm of eager townsmen had been invading the front part, and lugging out everything movable upon which they might lay hands. chairs, books, sofa, pictures, rugs,—all had been hurriedly borne across the street and piled in a heap.

even carpets had been pulled from the floors, and bundled into the outer air.

on the top of the pile sat, as if on his own quarter-deck, commodore jones. the commodore might be styled as in undress uniform; slippers, trousers, and a red bandanna to keep the night damp from creeping down the neck of his nightshirt forming his outer costume.

“who is it?” asked mr. miller, peering up at him, through the dusk.

“oh, it’s only jones. i was kinder keepin’ an eye on these things o’ yourn,” wheezed the commodore, carefully descending.

“well, i’m sure we’re much obliged, commodore,” said mr. miller, knowing the voice.

“you see,” exclaimed the commodore, “i looked out o’ my winder, and i thought this whole end of town must be burnin’. an’ after i’d got started, i heared it was your barn an’ house, an’ i reckoned i’d come on an’ lend a hand. an’ bein’ as i can’t stand a wettin’ i thought i’d mount guard over your truck, here. i’ve been burned out, myself, an’ i know how more things are lost by bein’ stole an’ damaged than by the fire itself.”

“it wasn’t necessary, quite, to carry out so much,” observed mr. miller, surveying, as best he could, the heap of goods.

“they was a leetle premature, that’s a fact,” agreed the commodore. “it’s a pity you ain’t goin’ to move; you’ve got a fine start at it.”

with the aid of the commodore and a few neighbors the millers placed their household furnishings back under cover. ned carried his cartridges indoors, again. mrs. miller declared that she could not sleep with her kitchen in such shape—the floor one big puddle and streaked with mud—and she and maggie went at it with mop and broom. they not only cleaned the floor, but also the porch and the back stairs, which were wet from top to bottom with the overflow from the pails and pans.

this done, the miller household retired to resume its broken slumbers. but during the rest of the night ned, for his part, slumbered only by snatches, now thinking that he smelled smoke from some fire anew, and now thinking that he heard bob appealing to him. several times he found his pillow wet with tears, despite his efforts to shut them back.

at last he gave way, and blubbered well in the dark, while he moaned: “bob! dear old bob!”

nevertheless, all the time in his breast was a faint hope that perhaps, by hook or crook, bob was living. it did not seem possible that he should be dead—gone forever.

however, in the morning the insurance men, poking among the ruins, found him. he was in the midst of the charred hay. the flames had scarcely touched him, and mr. miller said that a painless death by the thick smoke had come upon him in his burrow without his ever waking.

ned was glad to believe it, and was happier. he took only one look at the still body of his faithful, loyal chum, and walked away across the desolated yard, scarred and marred by the midnight events. he noted naught of this desolation without, for his eyes were brimming, and within, around his heart, reigned a greater desolation.

later, where the horse’s stall had been, were found four horseshoes—these, and nothing more. yet the fate of fanny appeared to ned as nothing, beside the fate of bob.

he went to school, as usual. zu-zu came running up to him.

“oh, ned! is bob really dead?”

ned nodded. whereupon zu-zu burst into tears and fled up the school steps, into the shelter of the hall.

ned wished that for the moment he, too, were a girl, so that he might act as he felt.