"Why can't we?" said Punk, always ready to carry out another's suggestion.
"George Washington was a volunteer fireman," was History's ever-present reminder from the books.
The scheme took like wild-fire with the Dozen, and after a conference in which the twelve heads got as close together as twenty-four large feet would permit, it was decided to ask permission of the Academy Faculty and of the town trustees.
The Kingston Faculty was of the general opinion that it is ordinarily—though by no means always—the best plan to allow restless boys to carry out their own schemes. If the scheme is a bad one they will be more likely to be convinced of it by putting it into practice than by being told that it is bad, and forbidden to attempt it. So, after long deliberation, they consented to permit half a dozen of the larger Lakerim fellows to join the volunteer department.
Fires were not frequent, and most of the buildings of the village were so small that little risk was to be feared.
The trustees of the village saw little harm in allowing the academicians to drag their heavy trucks for them, and promised that they would not permit the boys to rush into any dangerous places.
In a short while, then, the half-dozen were full-fledged firemen, with red flannel shirts, rubber boots, and regulation hats. The Lakerimmers were so proud of their new honor that they wanted to wear their gorgeous uniforms in the class-rooms. But the heartless Faculty put its foot down hard on this.
The very minute the six—Tug, Punk, Sleepy, B.J., and the Twins—were safely installed as Volunteers, it seemed that the whole town had suddenly become fire-proof.
The boys could neither study their lessons nor recite them with more than half a mind, for they had always one ear raised for the sound of the delightful fire-bell. They always hoped that when the fire would come it would be in the midst of a recitation; and Sleepy constantly failed to prepare himself at all, in the hope that at the critical moment he would be rescued from flunking by a call to higher duties. But fate was ironical, and after two or three weeks of this nerve-wearing existence the Volunteers began to lose hope.
One Saturday afternoon, when the roads were frozen into ruts as hard and sharp as iron, and when the Dozen had just started forth to take a number of pretty girls to see a promising hockey game, the villainous old fire-bell began to call for help.