There were none. Both boys were through the door and downstairs before he had finished the question. Sammy fled in terror before that frightful apparition, and Wendell went to bring Sammy back,--but he didn’t think of that good reason till afterwards. Neither boy paused in flight till the street was reached. “Did he have hoofs and a tail?” gasped Sammy. They stared up at the top windows. A jet of flame shot up. The muslin window curtain was on fire. “Fire!!!” yelled Sammy, dashing down the street to the alarm box. Wendell--this to his credit--ran back into the burning house and alarmed the family. Mrs. Bradford rushed for her jewels. Cousin Virginia, with great presence of mind, put in a fire call by telephone. Sammy’s alarm had already reached the fire station on Mt. Vernon Street. Almost as Virginia left the telephone, the clang of the engines was heard, and a line of firemen carried the hose upstairs, with their formula, “Is everybody out?” The servants rushed clamoring to the street. Virginia ran to help and reassure Mrs. Bradford, and Wendell followed the last fireman up to his room. The smoke was so dense that at first he could see nothing. Then he saw that the stream of chemical had extinguished all the flames, and was now directed at a fiery pillar in a sort of human shape that glowed redly through the smoke. Wendell alone knew what it was. Little by little the angry glow faded to white ashes. Gradually it dimmed to floating smoke. The fire was out. The smoke cleared. The firemen withdrew. The family assembled to view the blackened walls, to sniff the depressing odor, as of a burnt-out district, to exclaim over the havoc and ruin wrought in those few minutes. “How did it happen?” everyone asked, and “I don’t know,” said Wendell helplessly. How could he explain? “Wasn’t that Sammy Davis in here?” asked the cook. “You two boys were up to something, _I_ know.” His pretty room was a thing of the past--completely burnt out. The walls were black. A few charred rags had once been window curtains. A sodden rag underfoot was his rug. The closet was burned through. Blackened shreds of garments hung on the nails. Wendell’s desk was but charred timbers. His books were paper ashes. “I know why Wendell looks so woe-begone!” said Cousin Virginia. “His school books are burned.” “Don’t worry, dear,” said his mother. “Everything is covered by insurance. You wanted your room re-decorated, you know, and it is easy to replace the clothes and books.” Ah, yes, but who could replace the Cloak of Darkness? Who could restore the Cap of Thought? What insurance would cover the Book of Spells? Wendell was doomed once more to the drudgery of other mortals, to learning his lessons like other boys, to plodding his toilsome way through college, to making his own business success, unaided by the great minds of the world’s financiers. No wonder he stood there glum and almost tearful amid the blackened ruins of his room and of his future.