It was two o'clock the next morning. Crosman was far, far away, coasting down the joyous hills of dreamland. A laughing girl was at his side. She could not play long with him, for dimly he understood that the doctors were coming, and she must be at her post to welcome them. It would never do for the doctors to come and find no greeting from Mamie. But dreamland was bright to-night--the Little Folk were out in force, dancing like thistle-down over the Queen Anne's lace, or coasting with him down the starry slopes, a half-dozen on his back, more at his ears whistling gaily that Mamie was true--Blue for true!--Blue for true!--and hundreds of the maddest fellows capering on ahead, bounding and blowing from blossom to blossom. One danced far before, clad in a purple sweater and hearing a whistle. Now and again he blew a blast, daintily at first, like the signal of mint to the bees, then louder and shriller and shriller. It screeched hoarsely in his ears; a cold wind nipped at his legs and feet; the Little Folk were swarming around him, all in purple now, shouting wildly, urging him on--on--hurry--hurry! The whistle was deeper and hoarser--where was he--where---------? He was on his feet in the centre of the floor. Through the open window came the deep whistle of the _Number One_. In ten seconds he had tumbled into his trousers. Five more, and his boots were on. Another ten, and he was banging down the stairs and out the door, leaving it open behind him--and struggling into his coat as he ran. He could not guess how long the whistle had been sounding; but there was as yet no light in the sky above the yards. He must be on time: it lay with him to set an example to the men. His side was aching already, but he ran it down. As he drew near to the bridge he came out in full view of the yards, but could see no light. Perhaps he was early--perhaps the fire was starting on the river side. He thought of the dynamite, and with a bound was over the fence and running down to the water. A moment more and he was making for the bridge, pail in hand. As he paused here he heard some one running across, above him; and farther off were shouts and the sounds of running. The _Number One_ was still whistling. Over the bridge he went, a tin pail in each hand; around the corner of the fence and on to the open gate. He was dashing through when he was hailed by a familiar voice. There, sitting on a projecting plank of the nearest lumber-pile, was Halloran, a lantern in one hand, his watch in the other. Grouped around him were half a dozen panting men. “All right, Crosman. False alarm. But you've made bully time------ Look out, there!”