“Yes, I know, Mother. I didn’t mean to make it so late. It’s awfully cold tonight, isn’t it?”
“Very,” she agreed as she locked the door. “I told Collins to leave the draft on a little tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised to see snow in the morning.”
“It’s cold enough,” agreed Monty, from the stairs. “It’s nice and warm in the house, though. Good-night, Mother.”
Standart was not in bed when Monty reached the room, but he was ready for it, chastely attired in a pair of striped blue-and-white pyjamas. Monty deigned him one brief glance and Standart, although he strove to appear at ease, quailed. Then, probably vastly relieved at Monty’s silence and disregard, he laid aside the book he had been pretending to read and crawled under the covers. Monty undressed quickly, grimly pushed one of the window sashes to its full height, turned out the light and retired. But he wasn’t sleepy. There were so many things to think of. Standart didn’t interest him especially, although he knew that that youth was, like himself, lying awake in the darkness. When the time came he would attend to Standart very thoroughly, but he felt no temptation to break his promise to Leon. He thought about the trip home to Terre Haute, settling in his mind the details of packing and purchasing tickets and so on. But underneath was the ache of disappointment. It was nearly midnight when he at last fell asleep.
It seemed to him that it must be morning when he next awoke, but the windows showed only a twinkling star or two in their purple-black squares. He wondered sleepily what had disturbed him, and turned over to burrow his head again into the pillow. But full consciousness came in the act and he sat up, sniffing perplexedly. There was a distinct smell of wood smoke in the room. He knew the odor too well to mistake it. Perhaps it came in at the window, he thought. The room was very cold and he hesitated a moment before he finally got up his courage and pushed a shrinking leg out from under the covers. Once on his feet, however, he jumped across the floor and switched the light on, for the smoke was thick at the height of his head. One startled glance showed the room fairly blue with it. It was thick enough to trouble his eyes and his throat. Hurriedly he strode to the door and looked out, or tried to, but such a billow of the acrid stuff surged in on him that he followed his first impulse and swung the door shut again. But then, taking a breath, he once more threw it open and stepped into the hall. There was a faint, dull-red glow showing between the spindles of the railing, about the staircase well. As he looked it died away, reappeared and again waned. His ears caught at that instant the faint but steady crackling of burning wood.
He shut his eyes very tightly, not so much to keep out the stinging smoke as to concentrate his thoughts. Then he turned and climbed the stairs swiftly to the upper floor. There were three rooms there and on the door of each Monty thumped resoundingly.
“Tappen! Farnsworth! Are you awake? All out, fellows! The house is on fire! Don’t stop to dress. Drag something on and hustle down. We’ve got to fight it!”
He was plunging down the stairs again before the doors up there began to open and excited questions followed him. On his own floor he pounded at door after door, repeating the same warning: “All out, fellows! Fire! Get something on and come down!” As he passed Number 14 he remembered Standart and went in and shook, that youth roughly.
“Get up, Standart!” he cried. “The house is on fire!”
The sleeper grunted, opened his eyes and stared blankly at Monty. But that youth, having pulled on his dressing gown, was already hurrying back to the corridor. Joe Mullins, struggling into trousers over his pyjamas, was already there, and the upper stairs creaked under the flying feet of the third floor fellows. “Have you telephoned to the fire department?” demanded Mullins.