"It ain't half past seven yet. Maybe it's a fire!" said Custer. He quitted his chair and moved to the window. "I wish they'd give the ward. They'd ought to. How's a body to know--" "Set down, Custer!" commanded his mother sharply. "You ain't going out! You know your pa don't allow you to go to no fires after night." "You don't call this night!" He was edging toward the door. "Yes, I do!" "A quarter after seven ain't night!" he expostulated. "No arguments, Custer! You sit down! I won't have you trapesing about the streets." Custer turned back from the door and resumed his seat. "Why don't they give the ward? I never heard such a fool way of ringing for a fire!" he said. They were silent, intent and listening. Now the wind was driving the sound clamorously across the town. "They ain't give the ward yet!" said Custer at length, in a tone of great disgust. "I could ring for a fire better than that!" "I wish your pa was to home!" said Mrs. Shrimplin. As she spoke they caught the muffled sound of hurrying feet, then the clamor of voices, eager and excited; but presently these died away in the distance, and again they heard only the bell, which rang on and on and on. CHAPTER TWO THE PRICE OF FOLLY John North occupied the front rooms on the first floor of the three-story brick structure that stood at the corner of Main Street and the Square. The only other tenant on the floor with him was Andy Gilmore, who had apartments at the back of the building. Until quite recently Mr. North and Mr. Gilmore had been friends and boon companions, but of late North had rather avoided this neighbor of his. Mount Hope said that North had parted with the major portion of his small fortune to Gilmore. Mount Hope also said and believed, and with most excellent justification for so doing, that North was a fool--a truth he had told himself so many times within the last month that it had become the utter weariness of iteration. He was a muscular young fellow of twenty-six, with a handsome face, and, when he chose, a kindly charming manner. He had been--and he was fully aware of this--as idle and as worthless as any young fellow could possibly be; he was even aware that the worst Mount Hope said of him was much better than he deserved. In those hours that were such a new experience to him, when he denied himself other companionship than his own accusing conscience; when the contemplation of the naked shape of his folly absorbed him to the exclusion of all else, he would sit before his fire with the poker clutched in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees, poking between the bars of the grate, poking moodily, while under his breath he cursed the weakness that had made him what he was.