“Cinders! Soot!” called the rowers loudly. In answer to their hail a door opened cautiously and the keepers of the dark tower peered out. “What’s wanted?” asked the first hoarsely, while the second swung his dark lantern toward the party in the boat. “Take these men to Blazes and tell him to send ’em up!” directed the flame men together and, almost pushing Grampa and his little company from the boat, they jumped in and started to row back to their island. The dark tower was wet and clammy and made of moss that soaked up the rays of light from Fire Island as a sponge soaks up water. The keepers of the tower themselves looked burnt out and cindery and far from agreeable. “You go!” said Soot, after a contemptuous glance at the newcomers. “I’ve got to keep the light out.” “All right!” agreed Cinders. “Come on you, whatever you ares!” There was no way to get back to Fire Island, so Grampa motioned for the others to come and in silence they followed Cinders over the black, slippery rocks. Bill perched on Grampa’s shoulder and Tatters held fast to Urtha, who for the first time seemed a little frightened. “Being alive is so strange,” sighed the little flower girl, stepping along tremulously. “It’s not always like this,” whispered the Prince comfortingly. He was terribly frightened himself, but resolved to be as brave as he could before this lovely little lady of flowers. The dark tower seemed to be on the mainland of this queer underground country and, after a short march over the rocks, they came to a steep gray mountain. There was a door in the center and Cinders hammered on this with a poker he carried under one arm. The door opened immediately and a hot red glare smote the travellers in the face. “John says to send these creatures up,” grumbled Cinders, backing out of the light. “I hope that medicine’s still working!” groaned Grampa. “Do you still feel cool?” “Pretty cool,” faltered the Prince of Ragbad. “But—” “Come in,” roared the huge fireman, who had opened the door, “do you want to give me a chill?” Snatching Tatters by one hand and Urtha by the other, he jerked them through the door and Grampa, seeing that Cinders was about to slam it shut, sprang in quickly after them. Blazes was about twice as tall as the men on Fire Island and his flaming face was cruel and ugly. “So you’re to be sent up?” he sneered, staring curiously at the bewildered little company. “Well, you’re not worth an eruption, but orders are orders, so up you go!” Grampa could find no words to answer, for his eyes were glued in horror upon the boiling lake of lava, churning about a few feet below. Thick green smoke curled up toward them in clouds and just as he was about to order a hasty retreat to the door the keeper of the volcano seized a forty-foot poker and plunged it into the lake.