* * * * * * * *
It was summer time. The little Canadian city where they lived, which
stretched its length along the borders of the great lake, became a very
popular resort for holiday makers, and many Southerners flocked to the
two large hotels, seeking the cooler air of the North. Ball and tennis
matches and regattas made the little city very gay, and the season was
swinging at its height when one night Hock's burly voice heralded his
legs through the window of the Anderson parlor. Evidently he was greatly
excited, for he shouted at the top of his lungs that the east end
factory was on fire, with a dozen operators cut off from the stairs and
elevators, and that his father, who was foreman, was begging on all
sides for volunteers to rescue the people from the top story. In the
twinkling of an eye Hock was off again with crowds of running men and
boys; the fire engines went clanging past with the rattle and roar of
galloping horses and shouting men. Never had Archie Anderson felt his
frailty as he felt it at this moment. The very news made him almost
faint, but he started to run with the crowd until his shortening breath
and incessant coughing compelled him to return home, where he flung
himself down on the doorstep, burying his throbbing forehead in his
hands and saying: "Oh! I'm no good! I can never hope to be a man! I'm
not even a boy! I seem to myself like a baby!"
Late at night his father and brothers returned, all begrimed with soot
and ashes.
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