FOR HIS ENEMY.
“Fire!”
Two nights after the events just related, Frank had taken his evening
walk and was returning to the old place, which he was leaving forever
on the morrow, as it was already sold, and the writings had been made.
The cry reached his ears from a distance.
The cry of fire at night has a weird, peculiar sound, once heard never
forgotten.
Frank started from the spell that had been on him. He threw up his head
and listened.
“Fire!”
Again the cry reached his ears. It came from a distant part of the
village.
Quick as thought he whirled about and ran in that direction.
In the city the alarm is sometimes heard, but, more frequently, the
first knowledge of the fire comes from the sight of the engine as it
goes dashing to the rescue.
In small country places the wild cry of fire is almost always the first
alarm.
Frank knew this. He had lived in cities where the sound of the clanging
gong of a fire engine scarcely awakened passing notice; but now he was
in a small country town, and it was different.
He had not exerted himself to the utmost for some time, and, with
something like a feeling of exultation at the opportunity, he sped
along the road.
“Fire!”
The cry sounded nearer. He was in the border of the village, and he
thought he saw a red glow ahead and to the right. He turned a corner
and sped onward.
Soon he came upon others who were running in the same direction. And
then, after a little, he located the red glow beyond a doubt.
Lights were flashing in the windows of the houses, showing that the
inhabitants had been awakened and were rising hastily.
“Where is it?” asked a man who dashed out from one of the houses.
“Don’t know,” Merry answered, and sped onward.
“It must be Rufus Gray’s house!” shouted a man who was running and
puffing along the street.
Frank said nothing, but passed him like the wind.
The smell of smoke came to his nostrils as he turned another corner.
The fire had obtained a fine start before it was discovered. Through
the buildings and the trees the red glow was bursting forth with
greater brightness each moment.
Another corner turned, and the burning house was before him, with the
fire bursting from its upper windows.
“It’s Darius Conrad’s house!” cried somebody.
“Retribution!” exclaimed Frank. “It is the hand of fate that strikes
the man!”
For a moment a feeling like exultation ran all over him. He stopped
running, and walked forward slowly. Before the house a number of
persons could be seen huddled together, as if they were dazed, while
others were running about wildly in the red glare of the fire.
Frank came up.
“Are they all out of the house?” asked somebody.
“They must be,” said another person.
Just then the door burst open, and a man came out in a few scanty
garments, looking as if he plunged from a sea of fire, which glowed red
and yellow behind him. He ran out into the middle of the street, waving
his arms above his head and shouting. There he fell in the dust, and
the crowd gathered about him.
“Oh, my son! my son!” groaned the man, as he writhed prostrate in the
dust. “I went back for him! I could not reach him! He is in there
somewhere--sick, wounded, helpless! My God! Can no one save him?”
“Too late!” said a voice. “Is he in one of the chambers?”
“Yes!”
“The entire upper part of the house is in flames!”
“He is lost!”
“My God! My son--my own boy!”
Such a cry of heart-breaking anguish! It stirred Frank Merriwell’s
heart.
“I will try to find him and bring him out!” came in a tone of
determination from Frank’s lips.
“God bless you!” gasped Darius Conrad. “If you will----”
But the volunteer life-saver was gone. Hands were outstretched to stop
him, but he avoided them; voices called for him to come back, but he
heeded them not. In at the door he plunged.
“He is gone!” screamed a woman.
“Yes,” said a man; “and that is the last of him. He’ll never come out
of that!”
Darius Conrad, wicked old sinner that he was, knelt down in the dust
and prayed. His wife found him kneeling there, and knelt at his side.
They prayed for their son--their only boy.
The flames crackled with an exultant sound, and the yellow smoke rolled
upward. The moments seemed hours. In the distance the volunteer firemen
could be heard coming with the hand tub. By the time they reached the
spot there would be nothing for them to do but wet down some of the
nearer houses to keep them from catching, for then a city fire engine
would be unable to save the home of Darius Conrad.
And still Frank Merriwell was somewhere within that burning building
searching for the helpless youth who had been his foe. Those who had
hoped at first that he, at least, might come forth began to give up in
despair.
And then, out from the smoke and flame staggered a figure. It was a
human being, and on his shoulders he carried another human being.
“There he is!” screamed a voice.
“Hurrah!” roared a man.
“And he has Dyke Conrad!”
Forward to the street reeled Frank Merriwell, bearing his helpless foe.
Then he suddenly dropped to the ground, coughing violently.
Darius Conrad was on hand, and he folded his son in his arms. Dyke’s
mother fainted in the arms of a strong man.
But Frank was not forgotten. Scores of witnesses of his brave act
gathered about him. He was lifted by a young man who was six feet tall,
and very muscular.
“If he’s hurt in the least, it’ll be a dear sacrifice for the life of
that worthless dog!” declared the young man, and Frank recognized the
voice.
“I--am--not--hurt--my--friend,” he said, faintly. “My lungs are full of
smoke--that’s all.”
He had felt those strong arms about him before; he had heard that voice
defying Dyke Conrad in the old house in the forest.
But when Frank fully recovered, that strange friend was gone.
Dyke Conrad had been saved, and Darius was asking for the rescuer of
his son. They took him to Frank.
“You?” he cried, astounded, as the light of the conflagration showed
Merry’s features.
“Yes,” was the quiet answer.
“How can I ever pay you for saving my boy?”
“You can’t!”
Then Frank turned away, and he heeded not that the man called to him.
* * * * *
The time had come for Frank Merriwell to leave Bloomfield. The old home
was gone, and everything was settled at last. He had found a place for
Toots, and the colored boy had departed a day in advance.
And now Frank must face the world--he must start on a new career as a
breadwinner. He did not hesitate; he was not afraid. Deep within his
heart was a confidence that he would win in the battle of life, even
though forced to start at the very bottom of the ladder and fight his
way upward.
He turned and waved a farewell to his old home. The sun was shining,
and never had it seemed so beautiful and so dear before.
“Some time,” he said, “some time I will return and buy the old place
back. It shall be mine again.”
In Bloomfield now he was all too well known, and it seemed that nearly
all the citizens of the place turned out to bid him farewell at the
station. They shook hands with him, old men, young men and boys. Old
women cried over him, and some young women kissed him.
Neither Darius Conrad nor his son was there.
The train came and bore Frank away.