“Yes, finally. It will take them ten minutes to get here, though. Aren’t there some pails we can get?”
“At the other house!” shouted someone. “We can get the hose, too! Come on, fellows!”
“Someone ought to telephone to faculty,” gasped Mullins. “I’ll do it. You fellows go ahead.”
“Is everyone down?” asked Monty. “Wait! How about the cook?”
“She’s all right. She’s in with Mother,” answered Farnsworth. “Let’s get to work with buckets, fellows.”
They returned to the hall and as they crowded along Monty’s gaze fell on the glass transom above the dining-room door. It shone fiery red. He turned the knob and took one hasty survey of the room. Beyond the long table with its white cloth flames were licking at the wall. He closed the door again tightly and groaned.
“It’s worse there than in the kitchen,” he said to Mullins, who was impatiently sputtering into the telephone.
“Ring again, Operator! There must be someone there! Hurry, can’t you? Hello! What? Oh, is that you, Mr. Craig? This is Mullins, Morris House. This place is on fire.” Mullins was trying hard to be calm and coherent. “In the cellar. Yes, sir, pretty bad. I’ve telephoned to the department. We’re trying to get water on it. All right, sir!”
Mullins hung the receiver up and dashed, choking for the door. Outside, several Fuller House fellows were running across the intervening lawn, scantily clad, excited and curious. Monty shouted them back.
“Get your hose, fellows, and all the buckets you can find!” he cried. “Don’t run around like that!”