Soon there was a fire serious enough to satisfy the most ardent of the
company. A milder style of weather had been prevailing after the late
snow-storm. The sun had put extra coal on its fires and melted all the
snow. Then came a wind that blew continuously two days, drying the grounds
and the buildings.

"I notice, Somers," said Dr. Tilton, "that you did not have good luck in
finding a fire that last alarm, but if one is sounded now, I guess it will
amount to something. Fearful dry, it is getting to be."

The doctor was a true prophet. The next alarm did amount to something. One
morning about half past seven, there echoed in the narrow streets of
Seamont a cry that plain meant bad news. Will Somers heard, and might be
said to have _seen_, that cry. He had taken down the shutters of his
employer's store, and was hanging in the windows two very gaudily lettered
placards, "A balm for all, Jenkins's Soporific," "The need of an aching
world, Muggins's Liniment." Will heard that magic cry, "Fire--re--re!" He
turned and saw a man coming down the street. He was not only coming, but
running, his hat off, and his mouth open wide enough to take in a ten-cent
loaf of brown bread, Will thought.

"Woolen mill on fire!"

"Woolen mill!" gasped Will, and his first thought was, "glory enough for
one day."

The woolen mill was in a pretty little hollow, a nest whose walls were
spreading elm-trees. The mill was a relic of the old industries of the
place and represented a vain effort to make Seamont a "manufacturing
center."