“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.