“It certainly is a fire, and at the seminary, isn’t it, Tom?”

Tom did not answer.  He had already started to leave the building.  Straight down the hill he tore, and then up to the building where he and the others had their rooms.  He burst in on his brother like a cyclone.

“Sam, come on, quick!  There is a fire at the seminary!”

The younger Rover, who was deep in his writing, looked up, startled.

“What is that you said, Tom?”

“I said, hurry up; come along; there is a fire at the seminary!  The girls may be in danger!  Come on, let us go there in the auto.”

“Oh, Tom, are you sure of this?” And now Sam leaped up, brushing his writing to one side.

“Yes, I saw the fire from the observatory.”  And in as few words as possible, Tom gave his brother the particulars.  He was already donning his automobile outfit.  Sam followed suit, and both boys ran downstairs and to the garage.

By the time they had the touring car ready, Songbird, Stanley, Spud, and several others had joined them.  The word had been passed around that there was a fire at Hope, and permission to go to the conflagration was readily granted by the college management.

“All aboard who are going!” sang out Tom, who was at the wheel, with Sam beside him.  Then, after several collegians had climbed into the tonneau, away the touring car dashed over the road leading to Hope.

CHAPTER XI

 To the rescue

It was a wild ride, never to be forgotten.  Tom had all the lights turned up fully, so that he might see everything that was ahead.  From twenty miles per hour the speed climbed up to twenty-five, then thirty, then thirty-five, and finally forty.  Over the newly-mended bridge they dashed at breakneck speed.

“Be on your guard, Tom,” warned Sam.

“We’ve got to get there,” was the grim response.  “The girls may be in danger.”

“Right you are!  Let her go for all she is worth!”

They had been making many turns and going up-hill and down, but now came a straight stretch of several miles, and here Tom put on all the extra power the touring car could command.  From forty miles an hour, they reached forty-five, and then fifty, and, at one point, the speedometer registered fifty-four.

“My gracious, Tom, don’t kill us!” yelled Bob, to make himself heard above the roar of the motor, for Tom had the muffler cutout wide open.

The youth at the wheel did not answer.  He was giving all his attention to the running of the car, and this was needed.  Along the roadway they sped like an arrow from a bow, past trees and fences, with here and there a farmhouse or a barn.  Once Tom saw a white spot in the road ahead, and threw off the power.  But it was only a flying newspaper, and on he went as speedily as before.

“It’s at Hope, all right!” yelled Stanley, when they slowed down at a turn of the road.