the rope to guard against a too rapid
descent, and to smooth the precipice where the rope went over the edge
to keep it from cutting. When Tom had been lowered into the cut, Garry
himself went down hand over hand.

It was cool down there, but they could hear the wild flames raging above
and many sparks descended and died on the already burned surface. The
air blew in a strong, refreshing draught through the deep gully, and the
three boys, hardly realizing their hair-breadth escape, seemed to be in
a different world, or rather, in the cellar of the world above, which
was being swept by that heartless roistering wind and fire.

* * * * *

Along through the cut they came, a dozen or more scarred and weary
scouts, their clothing in tatters, anxious and breathing heavily. They
had come by the long way around the edge of the woods and got into the
cut where the hill was low and the gully shallow.

"Is anyone there?" a scout called, as they neared the point above which
Hero Cabin had stood. They knew well enough that no one could be left
alive above.

"We're here," called Garry.

"Hurt? Did you jump--both of you?"

"Three, the kid and I and Tom Slade."

"Tom Slade? How did _he_ get here?"

"Came up through the woods and brought us a rope. _We're_ all right, but
he's played out. Got a stretcher?"

"Sure."

They came up, swinging their lanterns, to where Tom lay on the ground
with Garry's jacket folded under his head for a pillow, and they
listened soberly to Garry's simple tale of the strange, shrouded
apparition that had emerged from the flames with the precious life line
coiled about its neck.

It was hard to believe, but there were the cold facts, and they could
only stand about, silent and aghast at what they heard.

"We missed him," said one scout.

"Is the camp saved?" asked Garry.

"Mostly, but we had a stiff job."

"Don't talk about _our_ job," said Doc Carson as he stooped, holding
the lantern before Tom's blackened face and taking his wrist to feel the
pulse.

Again there was silence as they all stood about and the little
sandy-haired fellow with the cough crept close to the prostrate form and
gazed, fascinated, into that stolid, homely face.

And still no one spoke.

"It means the gold cross," someone whispered.

"Do you think the gold cross is good enough?" Garry asked, quietly.

"It's the best we have."

Then Roy, who was among them, kneeled down and put