swooned at the sight of his own blood and had not yet returned to
consciousness. In the next seat the injured fireman was propped up on
pillows, watching the boy.

"There's a piece of real stuff," he said to the engineer as they sat
talking together. "Looks just like my old pard. It took real pluck to go
after that baby. If Bill'd a been here he would have gotten enthusiastic
over that lad."




CHAPTER II

A Story Is Told and a Promise Made


An open fire had always been tremendously fascinating to Willis Thornton,
and on winter evenings, when his chores were done and supper over, he
would pile the big fireplace high with maple logs, then sit and dream as
the flames danced and the fire roared. He was a sturdy lad, healthy,
cheerful, wholesome, and tonight he was thinking.

The snow-laden wind was sweeping across the "Flat Bush." At every fresh
gust the fire would crackle and the little blue flames start up along the
none-too-well seasoned logs. Outside the old farmhouse the great dead
limb of a monstrous white oak moaned and sighed, while the usual sounds
from the barnyard were lost in the patter of the icy snowflakes that
rattled against the window pane. From the open door of the kitchen came
faint odors of freshly-popped corn and the monotonous hum of the old