"Well, what is it?" he asked, hearing the boy's teeth chattering, and at once speaking to him kindly. "Been scared, eh? Been dreaming something that's disturbed you? Well, cut along, young un, you'll be all right."
But Parfit had no intention of cutting. "It's not dreaming, Darrell," he said eagerly. "It's fire."
"Fire!"
"Yes, I—I think. I'm next to the door, and I feel sure I can smell smoke. Please, Darrell, I hope you won't be angry, but I felt bound to come and wake you."
Clive was out of his bed like a shot, and getting into his dressing-gown and slippers before Parfit could believe it.
"You get back to bed, young un. I'll go and see. And don't talk of being sorry. If you smelled smoke, or thought you did, why, of course, the thing to do was to wake me. I'd have licked you if it had been a piece of foolery. But, right or wrong, you can expect only thanks for what you've done. So cut, there's a sensible fellow. I'll hop downstairs and see whether there's anything in it."
He slipped down the length of the dormitory while Parfit was thanking him, and swiftly pulled the door open.
"Yes, smoke," he told himself, sniffing. "And thick. I can see it coming up the stairway."
There was a gas jet on the stairs, kept burning all night, and sure enough, by the light it gave, smoke could be seen filtering up the stairs and whirling in thin wisps over the banisters. Clive shut the door behind him, gathered his dressing-gown about his body, and ran downstairs.
"I can hear crackling," he told himself, stopping for a second or more to listen. "That means a fire. George! This is serious!"