"What are you doing, Herbert?" asked his mother.
"I'm going to dress."
"What for?"
"I'm going to the fire."
"Herbert! Don't go! You might get hurt. Suppose some of the horses
should run away and trample on you? Don't go!"
"I must, mother. They'll need all the help they can get. I must go!"
From the village street once more came the alarm.
"Fire! Fire! Fire!"
Now, however, more voices were shouting it. There was also the rush of
feet, and Bert, peering from the window, saw a crowd of men and boys,
many of them carrying buckets, hastening along. The glare in the sky
had become brighter.
"I'm going to dress and go, mother," said the boy. "I want to aid all
I can. We'd like help if our house was on fire."
"Oh, Herbert! Don't suggest such dreadful things!"
Mrs. Dare left her son's room, and in a few minutes he had dressed
sufficiently to go out.
"Now do be careful, Herbert," called his mother, as he ran downstairs.
"If anything should happen to you, I don't know what I'd do."
"I'll be careful."
Herbert Dare was the only son of a widow, Mrs. Roscoe Dare. Her
husband had died several years previous, leaving her a small income,
barely sufficient to support herself and her son.
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