He walked up and down between the rows of beds. He told Bobby and Fred just how to distribute the remainder of their garments so that they would be easily at hand if there came an alarm.
"Of course, there's no danger, and there are plenty of fire escapes and all that," said the big boy, cheerfully. "But the Old Doctor insists upon our being ready for any emergency. Some night you'll be waked up by the fire bell and find drill is called. Want to be ready for it."
Then he glanced again at Fred's chair. "Hi, Ginger!" he said. "Put your boots straight. Your left one's on your right side, and vice versa."
There was a good deal of fun at Fred's expense when Barry had gone. "Hi, Ginger!" resounded from all parts of the room; Fred Martin had won a distinctive nickname on the spot, and he didn't like it much.
"I knew I shouldn't like that big fellow," he confessed to Bobby. "And I'll lick some of these kids yet, if they keep on calling me Ginger."
"No, you won't," declared Bobby. "You know you won't. They all have nicknames, too. Yours is no worse than 'Pee Wee,' or 'Shiner,' or 'Buck,' or 'Skeets.' They'll stick me with one yet."
"But 'Ginger'—"
"Aw, stop your kicking," advised his chum. "It won't get you anywhere."
There was still a buzz of voices as the twenty boys finished getting ready for bed. The door opened and Bill Bronson and Jack Jinks, from their room across the hall, looked in.
"Sleep with an eye open, you kids," Bill ordered, in a shrill whisper. "Something doing by and by."