He reached the door and crawled through, dragging his helpless burden with him. Through the smoke the farther windows were vaguely outlined against a flickering, reddish background. A brighter line of fire marked the crack beneath the double doors. Under his body, too, the floor felt hot, and he could sense a queer, uneven pulsation as if the boards were moving. What if the flames should burst through before they could get away? What if-- "Dale! Ranny! Where are you?" It was the scoutmaster's voice, and Dale's broke a little as he answered. In another moment Mr. Curtis was beside him, bending to lift the unconscious boy in his arms. "Are you all right?" he asked tersely as he turned toward the windows. "Yes." Scrambling to his feet, Dale stumbled after him. A crackling roar from behind the closed doors made him shiver. The windows were clear. Every one seemed to have left the hall save a single figure standing beside the nearest opening, one leg already over the sill. "Quick, Wes!" snapped Mr. Curtis. "Get out on the ladder and take him. Fireman's lift, you know." Becker obeyed swiftly, and, swinging the limp body over his shoulder, disappeared from view. "Now, Dale," ordered the scoutmaster. "You--" The words were drowned in a crashing roar as the doors fell in. There was a sudden, blinding burst of flame, a wave of scorching heat that seemed to sear into Dale's very soul. He flung up both hands before his eyes, and, as he did so, two arms grasped him about the body and fairly whirled him through the window to the ladder. "Catch hold and slide!" commanded the scoutmaster. "Hustle!" Mechanically, as he had done a score of times in their fire-drills from the roof of Mr. Curtis' barn, Dale curled arms and legs about the ladder sides, shut his eyes, and slid. Part way down a blast of heat struck his face; then hands caught him, easing the descent, and he found himself on the ground, with firemen all around and the cool spray from one of the big, brass-nozzled hoses drifting across him. He had scarcely time to step away from the ladder when Mr. Curtis, with hair singed and clothes smoking, shot out of the flame-tinged smoke and came down with a rush, while from the anxious crowd there burst a loud cheer of relief and laxing tension. Dale blinked and drew the clean air into his lungs with long, uneven breaths. Then the grimy face of Court Parker popped up suddenly before him. "Where's Wes, and--and Ranny?" demanded Tompkins sharply. "Over there." Dale pushed his way across the street and up to the edge of a circle that some of the scouts had formed about a small group on the farther sidewalk. This opened to let him through, and as he stood looking down on the handsome, blackened, pallid face of the boy Becker and MacIlvaine were working over, something seemed to grip his throat and squeeze it tight. "Is he--" he stammered, "will he--"