Once he got thinking in this strain Bert found it hard to get his mind off the matter. As he had nothing in particular to do, he decided to take a stroll past the mysterious mansion. He knew of a road, through the woods, that would bring him to the rear of the house, without any one seeing him.

He started off, passing through the back streets of the village, as he did not want to meet any of his chums just then. In a little while he was in the forest, and, proceeding along leisurely, so that if any persons did observe him they would not think he had any particular object, he reached the rear of the queer house. It seemed to be deserted. The shutters on the back were tightly closed, and there was no sign of life.

"A queer old place," mused the boy. "I wonder what—"

His musing was cut short by a sudden opening of the shutters on the topmost window. They were thrown violently back, as though whatever fastened them had been broken. At the same moment a hand was thrust out. It was a white hand, and it seemed to throw something from the window. Bert watched, and saw that the object was a bottle. The glass struck a stone and was broken. Then, from the bottle came a piece of white paper. The shutters were closed again. Wonderingly, Bert walked over and picked up the paper. On it was this mysterious message:

"help i am a priso"



CHAPTER XXII

THE STENOGRAPHER'S SUSPICIONS

Herbert stood gazing at the slip of paper in his hand. He did not know what to make of it. Then he looked up at the window whence it had been thrown. There was no sign of life there. Whoever had tossed out the mysterious message had disappeared again behind the dark shutters.

"Well, this gets me," murmured the boy. "I wonder what it means? Is it a joke; or something serious?"

Then another idea came to him.

"It's written on a typewriter!" he exclaimed. "I wonder if it could have been done by Mort Decker? Perhaps he is in trouble there with Muchmore. Maybe the man has him locked up. Had I better tell the authorities?"

Then, as he looked at the message again, he had a different thought.

"No, Mort couldn't have written it," he said to himself. "He knows how to work a typewriter, and he'd use capitals in the places where they belong. And, besides, this message isn't finished. Whoever wrote it had to stop before he was through. I wonder what the rest of that word is. 'Priso—' Maybe it's meant for 'poisoned' and it's spelled wrong. I wish—"

But the boy's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a noise at a window over his head. Thinking the person who had thrown out the mysterious message was again about to open the shutters, Bert watched anxiously, but, instead, a window on the second floor opened and Mort Decker leaned out.

"Hello!" began Bert.

"Hush!" exclaimed Mort, placing his fingers over his lips as an additional signal of caution. "Get away from here, Bert; Mr. Muchmore is coming!"

"But," went on the boy, "I have—"

"Don't say a word. Hurry away. I'll try to see you to-night, at the barn. Go, before—"

He did not finish the sentence, but hurriedly shut the shutters, and closed the window. Bert took the hint, and glided into the woods, where he could not be observed. He gave one look back at the mysterious house, and once more he saw that the window, from which Mort had looked, was open. But the stenographer did not peer forth. Instead, the face of Muchmore appeared. The man looked around carefully, as if to see if anyone had been communicating with inmates of the house. Then, apparently satisfied, as he saw nothing suspicious, he pulled the shutters tightly together, and closed the window.

"Well, things are happening in a bunch," thought Bert, as he made his way toward the village. "First I get a queer message I can't make head or tail of, and then Mort warns me away from the house. I wonder what he wants to tell me to-night? It must have something to do with the Stockton place."

Bert almost wished that a fire alarm might come in, so that the time would pass more quickly. But the day dragged along, and there was no occasion for taking out either of the engines.

After supper, as was his custom, the young chief visited the two fire- houses, to see that both apparatuses were in readiness for a run in the night. The tanks were kept filled, and the lanterns were lighted as soon as it grew dark.

Bert first went to the town hall, where, in the basement, he found Vincent and several members of "Corps No. 2," as it was known.

"Well, boys, all ready for a blaze?" asked Bert. "How's the machine, Vincent?"

"All right, I guess. We thought we were going to have a run, a while ago."

"How's that?"

"Pile of shavings near Sagger's new butcher shop caught fire, and made a lot of smoke. He came running in here, and wanted us to take the engine out, but I saw it didn't amount to anything, and I didn't want to waste a lot of chemicals on a blaze like that."

"What did you do?"

"We put it out with a few pails of water. He could have done the same, only he was too excited."

"And he is the man who said the bucket brigade was good enough," observed John Boll.

"I guess he's changed his mind," remarked Bert. "I'm going over to Cole's barn," he added. "It's my night on duty."

Bert found Cole and several of his chums engaged in games of checkers and dominoes in the barn, which had been fitted up as much as possible like a fire-house. Bert greeted his chums, and then sat down, to await, with what patience he could, the promised arrival of Mort.

"I hope he comes," thought the boy. "I'd like to get at the bottom of this."

It was nearly nine o'clock when Mort looked in at the open door of the barn and nodded to Bert.

"I'll be back in a little while, boys," said the young chief, as he followed the stenographer outside. There was an oil lamp in the driveway leading to the street, and Bert, pausing under it, pulled out the queer slip of paper, and showed it to Mort.

"I thought maybe you might know something about this," he said.

"Where did you get it?"

"I picked it up right near where you saw me, under the window. Some one threw it out."

"So, that's why you were there, eh? I couldn't imagine. I thought you were trying to find out something about that house of mystery."

"So I was. Why did you warn me away?"

"Because, as I told you, Muchmore was right there. I happened to see you when I was at work, in the place he has fitted up as an office, and I didn't want you to get into trouble. You were on his private land, and he would just as soon as not have you arrested."

"I'm not afraid of that. But what do you make of this message?"

Mort, who had not closely examined the paper before, started as he caught sight of it.

"Why, that was written on my typewriter!" he exclaimed. "I mean on the one Muchmore bought for me to use. I can tell, because the letter 'e' prints a little bit out of alignment."

"Who wrote it?" asked Bert. "What do you make of it?"

"I don't know who wrote it. Some one must have gone to my typewriter when I was away, or maybe it was done at night."

"Could it have been the old housekeeper?" asked Bert. "Maybe she is in trouble, and this looks like an appeal for aid."

"No. Mrs. Blarcum is afraid to touch the machine. Besides, she doesn't even know how to put the paper in."

"Muchmore wouldn't have tossed out a message like that, I suppose?"

"No. Besides, he knows how to work the machine, and he'd use the proper lettering. Anyhow, he'd have no occasion to do such a thing."

"Then what can it be?" inquired Bert, much puzzled.

"Certainly someone is in trouble," agreed Mort. "The word 'help' shows that. Properly written the message would look like this, and on the back of the paper he wrote:

"Help! I am a priso"

"What's that last word?" asked Bert. "I thought it might have been meant for 'poison.' What do you think?"

Mort was silent a moment. Then he exclaimed:

"I have it! It's 'prisoner'! That's what it is!"

"Prisoner?"

"Yes."

"But who could be imprisoned there?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's a lunatic, or some poor fellow whom Muchmore has fleeced out of all his money by gambling."

"Then he is a gambler?"

"Yes; but how did you know?"

"Well, it is rumored so in the village."

"Yes. He is a gambler, and something more. I believe he is a worse criminal. He has had several gambling parties at his house. Men come after dark, in automobiles, along the private road. Sometimes they arrive in the motor boat from the other side of the lake. They don't pass through the village at all. Oh, I see and hear things that Muchmore never suspects I know about."

"But what makes you think he is a criminal?"

"Because he has had me doing some queer work lately."

"What kind?"

"Making copies of old deeds and mortgages. Now, no man has deeds and mortgages copied unless he is going to dispose of property, and all this property is in the name of Harris Stockton, his uncle. I believe Muchmore is up to some crooked game."

"But where is Mr. Stockton?"

"That's what I can't find out. Muchmore says he is in Europe, and I often write for him letters addressed to his uncle, which are directed to different cities in France and Germany. But Muchmore always mails them himself. I don't know where Mr. Stockton is. If I did I'd send him word of what is going on in his house, and what I suspect his nephew is up to."

"But what about this queer message?" asked Bert.

"I'm sure I don't know what to say. There is some mystery about it. I will try and get on the track of it, but to do that I must get up on the top floor, and that is a place Muchmore carefully guards. Perhaps you can help me."

"I'm afraid not, but I'll try."

"Do," urged the stenographer. "I'll see you again, and—"

At that instant the fire alarm began ringing, and Bert rushed back to the barn.



CHAPTER XXIII

A BRAVE RESCUE

"Run her out, boys!" cried Bert. "It's the box at Needham's factory. If the factory gets going it'll be the worst fire we ever had in this town!"

Needham's factory was one where boxes for various purposes were made, and it was filled with inflammable material. The young firemen needed no urging. They sprang to their places. The bell on the engine sent out its warning note, as they wheeled the machine from the barn. The reel clicked as the long rope was unwound.

"Come on!" cried Bert, as he took his place at the head of the line.

"That's the way to run her out!" exclaimed the stenographer admiringly, as the boys swept past him.

"I'll see you again!" Bert called to him, for the thoughts of the young chief were now entirely upon the fire to which he was going.

"All right," answered Mort Decker. "I'll call around to-morrow."

Out into the street rushed the lads, dragging the engine after them. The tower bell, with quick, sharp strokes, was sounding the alarm. The noise of rushing feet could be heard, as men and boys hurried toward the blaze.

"We'll need the other engine, if the factory is on fire," commented Cole, who was beginning to lose his breath as the swift pace was kept up.

"Yes," answered Bert. "Vincent knows he's to answer all alarms near dangerous places without waiting for a special call. He'll be there before we are."

This was because the second engine was on the side of town nearest the factory.

"Maybe it isn't the box place," suggested Tom Donnell.

"I—hope—not," spoke Cole, laboredly.

"The factory is the nearest building to the alarm box," said Bert, "but of course the using of that box doesn't mean that the factory is on fire."

"Something is blazing, anyhow," added Tom. "I can see the reflection."

On the sky shone a lurid light, and there was the smell of burning wood in the air, as the wind blew toward the lads. On they rushed, the warning bell on the engine clanging loudly, and mingling with the rumble of the big wheels. It was a fine sight, and one would have enjoyed seeing the sturdy lads hurrying along, with the brightly polished engine sparkling in the light of the four lamps on it, had it not been for the thought of the fire which was destroying property, and, possibly, endangering life.

"It is the box factory!" suddenly cried Tom, as they turned a corner, and saw the blaze in plain sight.

"That's right!" added Bert. "Vincent and his boys are on hand. Put a little more steam on, fellows!"

Several of their comrades had joined them on the way, some not stopping to don their uniforms, while a few were only half dressed. It was easier work hauling the engine now.

"It's got a good start," remarked Bert. "I'm afraid we can't save much. We'll need the old hand-engine, too."

"Here it comes," cried Tom, as another rumble was heard, and the clumsy tank machine, manned by a score of smaller lads, came down a side street.

The factory was blazing furiously. It was not a big building, but it was filled with dry wood, which made excellent fuel for the flames. A big crowd had gathered in front, and a number of men were aiding Vincent's lads in saving as much of the finished stock as they could carry out from a side door, which the flames had not yet reached.

"Jump in and save as much as you can!" ordered Bert. "Unreel, Cole! Tom? take the nozzle as close as possible! I'll give you the full pressure at once. You'll need all you can get for this fire!"

Vincent's engine already had a chemical stream on the blaze, and it was doing effective work wherever the fluid was directed. But quite an area was now blazing.

There was a hiss as the gas began to form in the copper cylinder when Bert turned the valve, and an instant later a second whitish stream was being directed at the licking tongues of fire.

"If—we—only—had—my—force—pump!" panted Cole, who had not yet recovered his breath.

"Looks as if we were going to have it!" exclaimed Bert, as the old hand-engine was wheeled up, and the boys, with some men to aid them, formed a bucket line, and prepared to work the handles, while the three lengths of hose, including the one from Cole's force-pump, were run out.

"Shall we start in, Bert?" cried Fred Newton, who constituted himself captain of the hand-engine company.

"Let her go!" yelled the chief through his trumpet, for it needed a strong voice to be heard above the din.

The young firemen were doing fine work. As it needed but two lads on the two lines of chemical hose, the others could turn their attention to saving property. They managed to get out a large quantity of the finished boxes, some of which were for holding jewelry, and were very expensive. Two members of the firm had arrived by this time, and helped in saving some valuable papers from the office, which was almost destroyed.

The chemical streams were beginning to have an effect on the fire, which seemed to be dying down. The three streams of water from the hand-engine were also of good service.

Suddenly there was a sound of a loud explosion.

"That's in the varnish department!" exclaimed Mr. Needham. "Look out, everybody! There are barrels of alcohol and turpentine in there! They'll blow the whole place up! Better get back, boys," he added. "You can't save the factory!"

"We're not going to give up!" answered Bert. "There is plenty of the solution left in the tanks, and we can charge them again in five minutes. We've got plenty of acid and soda."

At that moment there was another explosion, louder than the first.

"That's a barrel of turpentine!" cried Mr. Needham. "Get back, boys!"

But the young firemen pluckily stuck to their task. It was so hot that they had to cease trying to save any more of the boxes, and even the lads with the hose had to move back from the fierce flames. But they did not give up.

Suddenly there was a cry of horror, and a score of hands pointed upward. There, on the roof of an extension of the factory, that was just beginning to blaze, stood a man.

"It's the watchman!" cried Mr. Needham. "He has his apartments there. He must have gone back to get something and the flames have trapped him!"

"What has he got in his arms?" asked Bert.

"In his arms? I don't know. Must be some of his things."

"It's a little girl! A little girl!" shouted the young chief.

"His niece! I remember now," said Mr. Needham. "She lived there with him. Oh, why did he go back? He was safe, for I was talking to him a few minutes ago, in front of the factory."

"Perhaps he went back to get the little girl," suggested Bert. "But he's in danger now."

The young chief ran forward, telling Cole to look after the engine. As he did so sheets of flame burst from the windows of the extension, on which the aged watchman stood.

"Get a ladder!" shouted Bert. "It's the only way he can get down! Fetch a ladder, boys!"

One was found, and quickly raised against the extension in a place where the flames had not yet broken out. Bert was up it in a second, while some of his comrades held the end on the ground, to steady it.



"Come on! I'll help you down!" cried Bert to the old man.

"I—I can't!" was the quavering answer, "I've got rheumatism so I can hardly move, and I'm stiff from fright!"

"You must!" insisted Bert. "This place will be all ablaze in another minute! Here, give me the little girl! I'll carry her down, and help you!"

"You—you can't do it!"

"Yes, I can. Give her to me! Come on!"

Bert took off his coat. Then he wrapped the little girl, who was motionless from fright, in the garment. Next he tied the sleeves together, making a bundle with the little girl inside, but leaving an opening through which she could breathe. Then, holding the precious burden in one arm, with the other he assisted the old man toward the edge of the roof.

"Go down the ladder!" cried the young chief.

"I can't!" complained the aged watchman.

"You must. The roof is giving way! Quick!"

The man gave one frightened look back, and then, trembling with fear, he started to descend the ladder.

"Don't—don't drop the child!" he called to Bert.

"I'll not! Hurry! It's getting too hot here!"

The flames were now coming through the roof of the extension. When the man was part way down the ladder, Bert, holding the little girl close to him, started to follow.

"Give him a hand!" he cried to some of the young firemen on the ground, and two of them came up the rounds to aid the watchman.

The old man reached the ground in safety, and Bert, with the child, was half way down the ladder when, from a window, past which he would have to climb, there burst out a terrible sheet of flame.



CHAPTER XXIV

AN ENCOUNTER WITH MUCHMORE

For an instant the crowd was horror-struck. It seemed that the brave young chief, and the little girl, must perish. For it was next to impossible to pass through that sheet of flame unharmed. The mass of superheated air, generated by the varnishes and other material in the extension, was forcing the flame out from the window in the shape of a great fan. The ladder was beginning to blaze.

Bert paused and looked down to the ground. The distance was not too great for him to jump, had he been alone, but, with the child, it might mean that both would be seriously injured.

"Throw her to me!" yelled Mr. Needham, and, at that, several men stretched out their arms, ready to catch the burden. But Bert shook his head. He did not want to run any risk of anyone not catching the little one, for he would have to toss her, with considerable force, away from the building, to have her escape the flames.

Yet there seemed to be no other way. Oh, how he wished the new department had a life net! He made up his mind he would soon get one, if he came out of this situation alive.

But Vincent had seen his chum's peril, and at once a daring plan came to him. The chemical stream from his engine, as well as that from the other, and the three water jets from the hand apparatus, were still playing on the flames.

"This way!" yelled Vincent. "Use what chemicals you have left, and all the water you can pump on the fire in the extension. That'll keep the flames from the window long enough for him to get past." The others caught the idea at once, and the boys rushed with their lines of hose around to where Bert still stood on the ladder, that was now ablaze in several places.

With a hiss like that of an angry snake, the flames seemed to shrink back at the touch of the elements to which they were opposed. The fan of fire, shooting from the windows, appeared to die down, almost at once.

"Come on! Come on!" cried the crowd to Bert, and, seeing his chance, he climbed farther down the ladder. Just as he reached the place opposite the window, the flames once more shot out. But he ducked down, and a well-directed stream, from the hose attached to Cole's force-pump, sent a saving spray over the brave lad and the little girl. The fire on the ladder was quenched, and, as that from the window was driven back, Bert made the rest of the descent in safety. Cole's pump had proved its worth.

A score of hands reached out to take the burden from Herbert, but he gently put them aside, and placed the little girl in her uncle's arms.

Then what a cheer there was for the brave young chief's act! But Bert had other things to do than listen to praises of himself.

"How are the engines, boys?" he asked.

"Pretty well run out," answered Vincent.

"Well, get ready to make some more solution. Shut down one engine, and fill the tank, and then do the same for the other. We'll fight this fire to a finish!"

This was done, and soon, with replenished tanks, the two pieces of apparatus were again in use. The old hand-engine, too, did its share, and so energetically did the young firemen attack the blaze, that at last the fire sullenly gave up.

"I think we've got it under control," said Bert, as he saw the flames beginning to die down. "If we don't have any more explosions, we'll be all right."

Fortunately there were no more, and, though the factory was badly damaged, the larger part of it was saved. But that was nothing compared to the satisfaction the members of the department felt over Bert's brave act.

In an hour more the last spark had been extinguished, and the chief gave orders for the engines to go back to quarters. It was the worst fire they had yet undertaken to fight, and the new engines had proved their efficiency in no uncertain manner. Little was talked of in town, the next day, but the fire and the sensational rescue.

As for Bert and his chums, they, too, had a fruitful subject for conversation. They had learned much from their experience at the box factory blaze, which was liable to stand them in good stead at future fires.

"I heard about you," remarked Mort Decker to Bert, when the next night he called at Cole's barn. "First thing you know you'll be getting offers from some big city department."

"Oh, I guess not. But how are things at the house of mystery? Have you discovered anything new?"

The two had walked out from the barn, to converse alone.

"I don't like the way things are going," replied the stenographer. "Muchmore gave me several other deeds to copy to-day, and in some he had me change the descriptions and names. I don't like it. I'm sure, now, that he is a crook."

"Can you do anything?"

"That's just what I was thinking about. I have an idea he has some person a prisoner on that top floor, whom he is holding there until that person does as he wants, in the matter of some property."

"If we could only get word to Mr. Stockton," said Bert, "he might call in the authorities."

"Yes, if we could, that would be the very thing. But I don't know how to do it. I wrote him a letter, and mailed it in the post-office, but a little later I saw it on Muchmore's table. He must get Mr. Stockton's mail, and forward it. And now I think Muchmore suspects me, because he probably opened that letter I wrote to his uncle. So we may as well take the bull by the horns, and do something."

"Yes; but what?"

Mort looked around to see that no one would overhear him.

"I'm going to make a try to get on that top floor," he said, "and I want you to help me."

"When are you going to do it?"

"To-night, in a little while. Muchmore is away, and there's nobody but the housekeeper there. We'll see who that mysterious prisoner is, who sends out typewritten messages asking for help. Will you come?"

"Sure. I don't have to stay here. It's my night off."

"Then come up to the Stockton mansion in about an hour. Go to the side door, knock three times, then a pause, then twice, and I'll know it's you, and let you in. We'll see if we can't solve the mystery."

About an hour after this conversation Bert knocked at the door of the big house as directed. The place seemed deserted, and there was not a ray of light to be seen.

"I wonder if he's here, or if Muchmore found out what he was up to, and drove him out," thought Bert, as he waited for an answer. But in a few minutes the stenographer admitted him.

"Don't make any noise," he cautioned. "Mrs. Blarcum is in her room, but she has good hearing in spite of her age, and I think she is somehow mixed up with the mystery. Now we'll go to the top floor," and he took up a big poker, which was on a chair in the side hall.

"What's that for?" asked Bert.

"We may have to smash down a door or two, or pry them open. This is the only thing I could find. Now come on."

They cautiously ascended the stairs. When they reached the top floor, they found a stout door barring their progress. Mort Decker tried to insert the point of the poker in the lock, to force it, but, finding he could not do this, he raised the heavy iron, to break the panels.

At the first blow there sounded from the other side of the portal a cry:

"Help! Help! Let me out!"

"Who are you? Why arc you in there?" asked Mort, pausing in his attack on the door.

Before he could distinguish the answer, if one was made, there sounded from behind the two rescuers, a woman's scream, and they turned to see Mrs. Blarcum rushing at them.

"Come away from there!" she cried. "Come away! Mr. Muchmore doesn't allow any one there!"

"I don't care what he allows!" retorted Mort. "We're going to get at the bottom of this mystery!"

Once more he rained a shower of blows on the door.

"Get away from there!" cried the old woman, rushing up, and grabbing the stenographer by the arm. "Help! Help!" she added. "Mr. Muchmore, he is breaking down the door to the secret corridor!"

Suddenly there sounded from below the rush of feet. Then came a startled cry.

"I'm coming!" some one shouted.

"Muchmore! It's Muchmore!" exclaimed Mort, pausing. "If he finds us here—"

"Let's stick it out!" urged Bert bravely. "We'll find out what this means!"

An instant later, Muchmore, his face distorted with anger, rushed upon them.



CHAPTER XXV

THE MYSTERY SOLVED—CONCLUSION

"Get away from that door!" yelled the enraged man. "What right have you to be prying into my affairs? I hired you to do copying work for me, not to roam about this house."

"Well, I'm done copying those illegal deeds for you!" retorted Mort. "And, what's more, we're going to find out whom you have a prisoner in there!"

"A prisoner? You are joking. There is no one in there."

"Yes, there is. He wrote an appeal for help on the typewriter and tossed the paper from the window. Hark, you can hear him calling for help!"

There was a moment's silence, but no cry came from behind the door, one panel of which was shattered.

"You see," sneered Muchmore. "I guess you'll wish you hadn't begun this work, my friend, before I'm through with you. You'll be in jail ere you are many hours older. As for you," went on the man, turning to Bert, "I warned you, once before, not to trespass on my property. I shall also make a complaint against you. Now, clear out, both of you!"

"Suppose I refuse to go?" asked Mort coolly.

"Then I'll throw you out. I paid you your wages to the end of the week. You can consider yourself dismissed. If you don't go—"

Muchmore paused, but there was such a fierce look on his face, as he strode toward Bert and the stenographer, that, though neither of them was a coward, they judged it best not to provoke the man too much.

"Oh, we'll go," replied the stenographer. "But I warn you that you haven't heard the last of this. This place will be searched, by the proper authorities, and that prisoner, whoever he is, will be released."

"There is no prisoner there," retorted Muchmore. "And I'd like to see the authorities here, or from anywhere else, search this house without my permission. A man's house is his castle, here as much as in England. Now you have my answer, and you can do your worst!"

"I'll inform Mr. Stockton," threatened Bert.

"Do, you young rascal, when you can find him," and, with a laugh, Muchmore motioned his two unwelcome visitors to leave.

"Well, we didn't find out much," remarked the stenographer, as he and Bert were descending the hill toward the village. "I'm afraid I made rather a mess of it. He came back unexpectedly."

"Maybe he never went away."

"Mrs. Blarcum said he was going to be gone all night."

"I believe she's in with him. But we certainly learned one thing. Some person is a prisoner in the house, and it's a man who wants to get out."

"And we'll help him," added Mort. "I'll inform the authorities in the morning."

"Where will you stay to-night?" asked Bert.

"I don't know. I guess I'll go to the hotel."

"It isn't a very good place. Better come to my house. There are only mother and I, and we have a spare room for you."

"You are very kind. I'll come."

Mrs. Dare welcomed the stenographer, and, after he and Bert had talked over the queer events of the evening, they went to bed, intending to start an official inquiry the first thing in the morning.

But fate took a hand in the matter, and the mystery was solved sooner than Bert or Mort expected it would be.

In the middle of the night there was an alarm of fire. It came from the box on the hill, near the Stockton mansion, and Bert, hearing the clanging of the bell on the tower, awoke with a start and began to dress.

"Where is the blaze?" asked Mort.

"Somewhere up near the house of mystery. I hope it isn't another false alarm."

"May I go with you?" asked the stenographer.

"Of course. Hurry."

Mort quickly dressed, and he and Bert, the latter making his usual promise to his mother that he would be careful, were soon hastening from the house, and toward the location of the box, where they would meet the engine.

"It's no false alarm!" exclaimed Mort, as they began to climb the hill leading to the big house.

"You're right. It's a fire, but it doesn't seem to be very big. The engine is there; I can hear the bell."

Bert and the stenographer had taken a short cut to the Stockton mansion, and, as they emerged from the woods, on that side of the house where Bert had picked up the mysterious message, they saw flames shooting from one of the windows.

"The fire is on the side of the house where the prisoner is!" cried Bert "It's in that secret corridor!"

"Maybe you'll have a chance to rescue him!" exclaimed the stenographer.

The fire had not gained much headway, and, under Bert's direction, a long ladder was procured, raised against the side of the house, and then, carrying the hose himself, the young chief ascended toward the blaze.

"Give me the stream!" called Bert to Cole, who was in charge of the engine.

From the nozzle came the white, frothy mixture. Bert directed it at the window through which the flames were coming.

"Don't you dare go in that hall!" shouted Muchmore, running from the side door of the house to the foot of the ladder. "The fire doesn't amount to much. You can put it out from where you are, young man. I never called your department out. The old woman got scared and sent in the alarm. It's only some rubbish burning."

"I'll do as I think best about putting the fire out," replied Bert.

"Don't you go in that corridor!" yelled Muchmore, who seemed frantic over something.

The chemical stream was already smothering the blaze, and Bert could go a little farther up the ladder. He continued on, coming right opposite the window. Then he knew it was the same casement from which the mysterious message had been thrown. He could look in now, and he saw that the fire came from a pile of rags and paper on the floor. He directed the chemical stream directly on them, and in a few seconds the last vestige of the blaze was out. But Bert did not descend.

He was peering into the dark corridor. Would he get a sight of the prisoner held there? He tried to pierce the darkness. Surely that was a movement, surely that was someone hurrying to the window.

Bert looked down. He caught one glimpse of Muchmore, in the light from a lantern Tom Donnell was carrying, rushing at the ladder, as if to upset it, and precipitate the boy on it to the ground, thirty feet below.

But in the same glance Bert saw his chums holding back the enraged man. There was another movement in the corridor. Then a gleam of light showed, and, to his surprise, Bert saw an old man, carrying a lamp, coming toward him. The man's hands were bleeding, his clothes were disheveled, and his hair and beard were matted, as if they had known neither comb nor brush for a long time.

"Save me! Save me!" cried the man. "Is the fire out? I started it to call help! I thought the firemen would come. Oh, save me!"

"You're all right," replied Bert. "There is no danger. The fire is all out."

"Yes, the fire is out. There is no danger from that. It is my rascally nephew whom I fear. Save me from him!"

"Your nephew? Who is he?" asked Bert, wondering what was about to happen.

"Alfred Muchmore. Have you seen him? Where is he? If he finds me talking to you, he'll lock me up again. He shoved me back in the room after I started the fire, but I broke through the door. See my hands! They are cut and bleeding!"

"Who are you?"

"Harris Stockton."

"What? The owner of this place?"

"Yes, my lad. The owner of the Stockton mansion, which my rascally nephew is trying to force me to convey to him, together with all my other property. He has compelled me to sign some deeds, but to-night I refused to give him any more of my property. He has kept me a prisoner here many months, for I am weak and sickly, and he is strong. That old woman helped him. Once before, there was a fire here, and I thought I might escape, but I could not. Then, last night, some people tried to break down the door, but he drove them away. To-night, when he left me for a while, I started this fire. I knew it could not do much damage, and I hoped it would bring me help. Thank God, it has! You will not let him shut me up again, will you?"

"Well, I guess not!" exclaimed Bert, as he climbed over the window sill, and entered the long hall that was part of the unfortunate man's prison. "He'll have to tackle the whole Lakeville fire department if he does. You're safe now, Mr. Stockton."

"Oh! I'm so glad! It seemed as if I never would be free again!"

"We'll soon have you in better quarters than this," went on Bert. He leaned out of the window and shouted:

"Hey, Mort! 'I've got him! I've got the mysterious prisoner. It's Mr. Stockton! Come on up, and bring some of the boys! Grab Muchmore, and hold him!"

The rascally nephew heard the words which meant that his career was at an end. He had been struggling to break away from Tom Donnell and the stenographer, who were holding him, to prevent him from upsetting the ladder.

At Bert's words the enraged man, with a violent effort, managed to wrench himself loose. He fled, for he knew the game was up. But it may be added here that he was subsequently captured, and sent to prison for a long term.

Into the mysterious house rushed the young fire-fighters, with Mort at their head to show them the way. The partly shattered door leading into the corridor was quickly broken open, in spite of the protests of Mrs. Blarcum, who did not seem to understand that Muchmore had fled, and that the real owner of the mansion was again in possession. A little later the old woman disappeared and all trace of her was lost.

As for Mr. Stockton, he soon was in his own apartments, where he quickly removed the signs of his imprisonment. Then he told his story, briefly, to Bert and his chums.

Muchmore, it appeared, had always been a bad character, but he had told his uncle that he had reformed, and had begged his relative to give him a home. No sooner was he installed in the mansion than he began to scheme to get possession of it, and also what other property Mr. Stockton had. To this end he secretly administered to his aged relative a medicine which greatly weakened him. Then, when the old man was not capable of defending himself, Muchmore had shut him up in an unused part of the house. From then on the nephew's course became bolder.

He began his wild, gambling life, introducing some of his cronies into the mansion. He compelled Mrs. Blarcum to do as he wished by telling her Mr. Stockton was crazy, and had to be kept a prisoner. Muchmore's strange actions, when the young firemen were first at the house, was due to his fear lest they discover that Mr. Stockton was a prisoner in his own mansion.

Then Muchmore began to make out deeds and other papers, compelling his uncle, by threats of violence, to sign such as were necessary for his purpose. Mr. Stockton tried several times to escape, but the rascally nephew and housekeeper were too much for him. Once Mr. Stockton managed to get as far as the office where Mort Decker, under the direction of Muchmore, was in the habit of copying deeds. The stenographer was out at the time, and the office was deserted, and, as he could not find a pen, the old man used the typewriter to prepare the mysterious note Herbert found. He was disturbed before he could finish it, but he carried it away with him, and, at the first opportunity, threw it from the window.

But now he had no more to fear, thanks to the rescue by Herbert.

"I can't thank you enough," he said to the young chief. "But for you I might still be a prisoner."

"You helped yourself as much as we helped you," said Bert "It was a good idea, to think of starting that fire."

"Yes, it was the only thing I could think of. This place is so lonesome that persons seldom pass by, or I might have called to some of them, when I was well enough. Often I had to stay in bed for days at a time. I made the fire of some old papers and rags, and I had a pail of water ready to throw on it in case it got going too fiercely. Then Muchmore came and caught me, and locked me up. Oh, how I prayed that they might send in an alarm, and that the fire department would come, for I heard from the old housekeeper that a company had been started in addition to the old hand-engine corps."

"Yes, we think we have quite a fine department," said Herbert proudly.

"Well, you'll soon have a better one," said Mr. Stockton. "I want to show my appreciation in some way, and I'm going to buy a regular steam-engine for the town."

"But we'll need a water system for that," objected Bert.

"That will come. I am going to sell a lot of property I have, and put a water system in Lakeville. I've held on to my land too long. We'll develop this village, until the old inhabitants, like myself, won't know the place. And, when we have the new department, I want you boys to have a hand in running it."

Mr. Stockton was as good as his word. It took some time to make the improvements he suggested, but finally a fine water system was installed in the town, and the best steam fire-engine money could buy was presented to Lakeville, with the compliments of the aged millionaire. In this work he was aided by Mort Decker, whom Mr. Stockton appointed his secretary.

It needed horses to draw the steamer, and of course required men to operate it. But the boys were not forgotten. They still kept the chemical engines—and the smaller lads the hand-engines—and they were often called on to put out trifling blazes, and help at the larger ones.

Mr. Stockton did not forget what Bert had done for him. He owned a comfortable house with two acres of ground and a barn, on one of the side streets of the town, and one day he surprised the young fireman by handing him a legal-looking document.

"What is this?" asked the youth in surprise.

"A deed to a house on Cherry Street," answered the rich man. "The place is now yours, free and clear. You and your mother can move into it at any time."

"Why, I didn't expect this," stammered Bert.

"I know you didn't, my lad, but it is yours, nevertheless. I want to do something for you—and for that good mother of yours."

Of course, Bert and Mrs. Dare were very grateful. They moved into the house a month later, and found it a far more comfortable home than they had ever before enjoyed.

Lakeville is now quite a city. It has two steam fire-engines, instead of one, the taxpayers purchasing the second. And if you were to go there tomorrow, or any other day, for that matter, and ask for the chief of one of the finest small departments in the United States, you would be introduced to Herbert Dare. For, after he finished his schooling, he was unanimously selected to act in his former capacity. And here, wishing him all success in the field which he has chosen for himself, and hoping that he may help save many lives and much property, we will say good-bye to our young fireman and his loyal comrades.

THE END