Dave crossed the room in a flash. Finding the key in the lock of the other closet door, Dave Darrin turned it and found Mrs. Dexter lying on the floor.
"Fellows!" bawled Dave hoarsely. "Never mind the water. Come here—on the jump!"
Half a dozen boys ran back into the room, just in time to see Dave struggling to drag Mrs. Dexter out to the front porch.
"One of you help me," directed Darrin. "The others batter down that closet door over there. Dick Prescott is locked up there, and there is no key."
"Here's a hatchet," cried another boy, running in from the kitchen. "Clear the way and let me at the door."
The boy was Greg Holmes. He brought the hatchet down with telling force at each blow, smashing all the paneling around the lock. In a very few moments Greg had the door open, and he and Dave helped catch Dick as the latter fell forward, dizzy and all but unconscious.
"Rush him out on to the front porch!" ordered Dave. "Then we'll come back and fight the fire!"
"Has—has anyone turned in an alarm?" inquired Dick, as he reached the porch and took in a life-saving breath of the pure, cool air.
"No," admitted Dave. "We forgot that. But I'll run and do it now."
"What's the matter? Fire?" called a man from the next yard.