Part 8
There was one feature of the drill that amused Miss Eleanor’s friends greatly. Of course there was no fire-alarm in the old hall, and she would not let anyone cry out or even pretend for a moment that there was any real danger. She merely called sharply, “_Now!_” when they were to form, and it was one of the suppressed excitements of the afternoon to wait for that word. They never knew when it would come.
For Miss Eleanor’s one terror was fire. Twice, as a little girl, she had been carried out of a burning house; and the flames bright against the night, the hoarse shouts of the firemen, the shock of the frightened awakening, and the chill of the cold winter air had so shaken her nerves that she could hardly bear to remember it. Burglars had little terror for her; in accidents she was cool and collected; more than once, in a quiet way, she had saved people from drowning; but a bit of flaming paper turned her cheeks white and made her hands tremble. So though big Hans begged to be allowed to call out “Fire!” she would never let him, and though she explained the meaning of the drill to them, it is to be doubted if they attached much importance to the explanation, as she herself did not care to talk about it long.
One fine, windy Thursday—it was the second Thursday in March, and the last Thursday the Imp would be able to spend with his new friends, for he was going back to the country—they started out a little depressed in spirits: the Imp because it was his last visit, Miss Eleanor because she was afraid her children were in danger of a hard week. The hands of three of the largest factories were “on strike,” and though they were quite in the wrong, and were demanding more than any but the ring-leaders themselves felt to be just, they were excited to the pitch of rage that no reasoning can calm, and as the superintendents had absolutely refused to yield any further, affairs were at a deadlock.
One or two of Miss Eleanor’s friends had grown alarmed, and urged her not to go there till the matter was settled, but she would not hear of this.
“Why, this is the very time I want to keep the children out of the streets!” she said. “They all know me—nobody would hurt me. They know I love the children, and I have nothing to do with their quarrel. I should be willing to trust myself to any of them. They have always been very polite and respectful to me, and they’ve been getting ready for this for two weeks, for that matter.”
Her father agreed to this, and assured the Imp’s mother that any demonstration that might take place would be at the other end of the town, near the mills, and that it was very unlikely that anything further than a shut-down for a few days would result, at most.
“They’re in the wrong, and most of them know it, I hear,” he said. “They can’t hold out long: nobody else will hire them.”
This may have been true, but it did not add to their good-humor. As the Imp and Miss Eleanor walked up through the village, the streets were filling rapidly with surly, idle men. Dark-eyed Italians, yellow-haired Swedes, shambling, gesticulating Irish, and dogged, angry English jostled each other on the narrow walks, and talked loudly. Miss Eleanor hurried the Imp along, picking up a child here and there on the way, and sighing with relief as she neared the old hall.
Some of the excitement had reached the children, and though they had come in large numbers, for they knew it was the Imp’s last visit for some time, and there had been hints of a delightful surprise for them on this occasion, they were restless and looked out of the windows often. There was a shout of applause when, the Imp suddenly becoming overwhelmed with shyness, Miss Eleanor invited them all out to his home for one day in the summer; but the excitement died down, and more than one of the older children glanced slyly at the door. The men from that end of the town were filing by, and most of the women were following after.
Miss Eleanor racked her brains for some amusement.
It was cold in the room, for the boy who had charge of the clumsy old-fashioned stove was sick that day, and there was no fire. So partly to keep them contented, and partly to get them warm, she proposed a game of blindman’s-buff. There was a shout of assent, and presently they were in the midst of a tremendous game. The stamping feet of the boys and the shrill cries of the girls made a deafening noise; the dust rose in clouds; the empty old building echoed confusingly. The fun grew fast and furious; the rules were forgotten; the boys began to scuffle and fight, and the little girls danced about excitedly.
Miss Eleanor called once or twice to quiet them, but they were beyond control; they paid no attention to her.
With a little grimace she stepped out of the crowd to breathe, and took out her watch.
“Twenty minutes!” she said to little Olga, who followed her about like a puppy. “I’ll give them ten more, and then they _must_ stop!”
Little Olga began to cough, and looked doubtfully at the old stove, which was given to smoking.
“It smells bad just the same, don’t it?” she called. They had to raise their voices to be heard above the noise.
“No, child, it’s the dust. Isn’t it dreadful?” Miss Eleanor called back, coughing herself. “But it smells just like smoke. How horrid it is! And how hot!” she added after a moment. “With the windows open, too! We’ll all take cold when we go out. They _must_ stop! Boys, boys! Hans, come here to me!”
She rang a little bell that was the signal for quiet, and raised her hand.
“Now I’m going to open the door, to get a thorough draft, and then we’ll quiet down,” she said, and pushed through the crowd to the door.
As she opened it wide, a great cloud of brown, hot smoke poured into the room, a loud roaring, with little snapping crackles behind it, came from below, and Miss Eleanor suddenly put her hand to her heart, turned perfectly white, and half fell, half leaned against the door.
For a moment the children were quite still, so still that through the open door they could hear the roar and the crackle. Then suddenly, before she could prevent him, little Pierre slipped through and started down the hall. With a cry she went after him, half the children following her, but in a moment they crowded back, screaming and choking. The stairs at the end of the long hall were half on fire!
Miss Eleanor tried to call out, but though her lips moved, she could not speak above a whisper. She shut the door and leaned against it, and the look in her eyes frightened the children out of what little control they had.
“Call,” she said hoarsely, “call ‘Fire!’ out of the window. Quick! Call, all of you!”
But they stumbled about, crying and gasping, some of them struggling to get by her out of the door. She was trembling violently, but she pushed them away and held the door-knob as tightly as she could.
Only Olga ran to the open window, and sent a piercing little shriek out into the quiet street:
“_Fire! Fire! Come along! Fire!_”
For a moment there was no answer, and then a frightened woman ran out of her house and waved her hand.
“Come out! Come out, you!” she called.
“Our stairs is burnt all up! We can’t!” screamed Olga.
The woman ran quickly down the empty street, calling for help as she ran, and the children surged about the door, a crowd of frightened little animals, trying to drag Miss Eleanor away from it.
“Wait,” she begged them, “wait! You can’t go that way—they’ll bring ladders! Oh, _please_ wait!”
Her knees shook beneath her, the room swam before her eyes. The smell of the smoke, stronger and stronger, sickened her. With a thrill of terror, she saw big Hans drag a child away from the window, and deliberately pushing her down, prepare to climb out over her, almost stepping on her little body.
Suddenly she caught sight of the Imp. He was pushing his way through the crowd valiantly, but not toward her.
“Come here, Perry!” she said weakly. But he paid no attention. He had been dazed for a moment, and like all the other children, her terror had terrified him quite as much as the fire. Now as he caught her eye, and saw the helpless fear in her face as she watched Hans, something sent him away from her to a farther corner, and as the smoke began to come up between the boards of the floor, and the same deadly stillness reigned outside, while the confusion grew greater in the hot, crowded room, a new sound cut through the roar and the crackle.
Brrrm!
Brrrm!
Brrrm, brrrm, brrrm!
The children turned. Big Hans, with one leg out of the window, looked back. There was a little rush, half checked, for the sides of the room, and Olga instinctively looked about for her small charges.
But they wavered undecidedly, and as the sound of steps outside and the clattering of horses’ feet reached them, a new rush for the door began, and Miss Eleanor’s hand slipped from the knob, and she half fell beside it.
Brrrm!
Brrrm!
Brrrm—_um_ dum!
That familiar long roll had never been disobeyed; the habit of sudden, delighted response was strong; and with a quick recollection that he was to be head boy, big Hans slipped from the window-sill and jumped to the head of a straggling line. Olga was behind him in a moment, and Pierre, proud of his position as rear-guard and time-keeper for the little boys, pushed them, crying and coughing, into place.
Miss Eleanor must have been half unconscious for a moment. When she struggled to her feet, no scrambling crowd, but an orderly, tramping line pushed by her, and above the growing tumult outside, above the sickening roar of the fire below, came the quick, regular beat of the faithful drum.
Brrrm!
Brrrm!
Brrrm, brrrm, brrrm!
The children marched as if hypnotized. The long line just filled the sides of the room, and they were squeezed in so tightly that they forced each other on unconsciously. The Imp in his excitement beat faster than usual, and his bright red cheeks, his straight little figure, as he walked his inside square, his quick, nervous strokes, were an inspiration to the most scared laggard. Big Hans, elated at his position—his for the first time—never took his eyes off the black sticks, and worked his mouth excitedly, keeping time to the beats, the Imp frowning at his slightest misstep.
Miss Eleanor, the door hot against her back, forced her trembling lips into a smile, and cheered them on as they tramped round and round. Was nothing being done? Would no one come?
Suddenly there was a thundering, a clanging, and a quick, sharp ringing gong came closer with every stroke; the sound of many running feet, too, and loud, hoarse orders. The line wavered, seemed to stop. She summoned all her strength, and called out aloud for the first time:
“Don’t stop, children! Keep right on! Stand straight, Hans, and show them how well you can lead!”
Hans tossed his head, glared at a boy across the room who had broken through, and forged ahead. There was a succession of quick blows on the sides of the room, a rush, and in another moment three helmeted heads looked through three windows. At the same moment a sharp hissing sound interrupted the roaring below, and though the door was brown behind her now, and a tiny red point was glowing brighter in the wall near by, Miss Eleanor’s strength returned at the sight of the firemen, and she stood by the side of the Imp and encouraged the children.
“Don’t stop, Hans! Remember, little ones first! Olga’s children first!”
And with a grunt of assent Hans marched on, the line following, closing up mechanically over the gaps the men made, who snatched out the children as they passed by the windows, and handed them rapidly down the long ladders. In vain the firemen tried to get the boys. They wriggled obstinately out of their grasp, as they went round, till every girl was lifted out, Olga standing by the window till the last of her charges was safe.
The door fell in with a bang, and in spite of the hose below, the smoke rolled up from between the cracks in the floor, thicker and thicker. As the plaster dropped from the walls in great blocks, Miss Eleanor dragged the line into the center of the room, and motioned one of the men to take the Imp as he passed by. For so perfect was the order that the men never once needed to step into the room, only leaning over the sills to lift out the children. The Imp felt a strong grasp on his arm, and pulled away; the man insisted.
“Hurry now, hurry, let go!” he commanded gruffly. The despair in the Imp’s eyes as he drummed hard with his other hand grew to rage, and he brought down his free stick with a whack on the man’s knuckles. With a sharp exclamation the man let go, and the Imp pressed on, his cheeks flaming, his eyes glowing. His head was high in the air, he was panting with excitement. The line was small now; another round and there would be but a handful. The floor near the door began to sag, and the men took two at a time of the bigger boys, and left them to scramble down by themselves. With every new child a shout went up from below. As Hans slipped out by himself, and two men lifted Miss Eleanor out of one window, a third meanwhile carrying the Imp, kicking in his excitement, and actually beating the drum as it dangled before him, while a fourth man took a last look, and crying “O. K.! All out!” ran down his ladder alone, the big crowd literally shouted with thankfulness and excitement.
As for the Imp, he felt tired and shaky, now that somebody had taken away his drum, and all the women were trying to kiss him; and he watched the blackened walls crash in without a word. His knees felt hollow and queer, and there was nobody to take him in her lap like the other children, for Miss Eleanor had quietly fainted in the firemen’s arms, and they were sprinkling her with water from the little pools where the big hose had leaked.
They took them to the station in a carriage, and the Imp sat in Miss Eleanor’s lap in a drawing-room car, and she cuddled him silently all the way home. Her father, dreading lest she should be hurt somehow after all in the crowded streets, passed them in an express going in the other direction, to find out that they were safe, and that the strike was off. The recent danger had sobered the men, and their thankfulness at their children’s safety had softened them, so that their ring-leaders’ taunts had no effect on their determination to go back to work quietly the next day.
It was at her father’s request that they refrained from any more costly gift to Miss Eleanor than a big photographic group of the children, framed in plush, “as an expression of their deep gratitude for her presence of mind in keeping the children in the room away from the deadly flames beneath.” But to the Imp the Mill Town drum corps and military band formally presented “to master Perry S. Stafford the drum and sticks that he used on the occasion when his bravery and coolness made them proud to subscribe themselves his true friends and hearty well-wishers.”
THE SECOND STRING
By James B. Connolly
The Interscholastic Athletic Association was holding its annual track meeting. In the athletic building a hundred lads or more were dressing or rubbing in preparation for the different events. The clerk of the course, sticking his head within the door, shouted, “Last call for the hundred yards final! Last call! Hurry now, fellows!”
The graduate coach of Webster High School cut short his instructions to a medium-sized, heedful, earnest-looking lad. “There now, I’ll have to go and see how Prouty runs in the hundred. But bear in mind, Haskins, what you’re to do when your race comes. Keswick is out to run the field off its feet. And if they follow him he’ll do it. You are to get the inside track—on the first run get the pole, mind, if you have to do forty yards in record time to do it. That will start a break in Keswick’s plans. Then you make the pace—with an eye all the way to Stevenson. Perhaps you’ll carry Sullivan off his feet, too, at the same time. That’s not likely, though. Anyway, carry Stevenson along—clear round to the home-stretch, and make it so hot for Keswick on the way that he’ll be done up at that point. Land Stevenson in the straight in good shape and your work will be done. Drop out then if you want to, and I guess you’ll want to drop. You’ve an hour yet. When Stevenson comes from the rubbing board, jolly him along a bit. He’s apt to get—nervous—you know. Got it all?”
“I think so.” Haskins lay back on his mat for rest and meditation.
Pretty soon Stevenson, a tall, rangy lad, came over from the other side of the room. He halted above Haskins, and looked about, as if seeking a place to lie.
Haskins caught his glance. “They’re all in use, I guess, Stevie. Take this place. You’ll want all the rest you can get for your race.”
“You’re not done? You’ve got to run, too.”
“O shucks—me—second string—I’m only to make pace for you. Mr. Ludwig just told me.”
“Well, all right—thanks. Think you can do it right?”
“I don’t know. It’ll be hard getting the pole from Keswick. He’s in for the same game—making way for Sullivan. We’ll have a great time of it, Keswick and I. I wonder which will flop first? But I’ll make for that pole—though Keswick’s a hound for a quick start—and try to hold on for the straight again. That’ll do, won’t it? If I kill off Keswick so he won’t be of any use, you can give all your attention to Sullivan? He’s a good man, Sullivan, but you can give him yards and a licking any day in the week, Stevie.”
“Think so, Dickie?”
“Think? I know it. He hasn’t your stride, your speed, or your head, and you’re in great shape to-day, Mr. Ludwig says. Beat him? You’ll flag him. Oh, I wish I had your speed! I’d make Sullivan and Keswick look like busted automobiles. I know just how I’d do it, too. But what’s the use? I haven’t the speed. I’m only second string and lucky to be that, but I’ll go through three hundred yards of that quarter to-day for every little ounce in me, and I don’t care if they carry me off afterward.”
The little lad was cuddled up on the floor, back to a locker, knees up to his chin, bath-robe tucked in round him. His regard was all for his school champion. In common with most of the boys of the school, he had the deepest admiration for Stevenson’s running power. Never before had such a quarter-miler come out of Webster—no, nor out of the state! All he needed was a little more growth and experience and a little more—well, confidence in himself, and he would beat the world! So his schoolmates phrased it.
Stevenson placidly accepted Haskin’s devotion. He had been used to that sort of thing for some time now, and it did not fluster him. He did not even acknowledge the care with which his friend tucked in the wandering folds of his blanket, saying, “It’s drafty here, Stevie, and you want to keep your legs covered or you’ll stiffen up. Mustn’t stiffen up, you know.”
They waited for their time to come—Stevenson on the mat, Haskins snuggled up against the locker. The young athletes in the room kept going and coming. They would go out fresh and strong, some nervous, some confident, a few absolutely in fear—ready to draw back only that shame forced them on. They came back tired, winded, used up, some of them jubilant, some depressed, a few crying. With each returning batch some new details of the progress of things were shouted round the room.
At last the coach, Ludwig, came back. “Your quarter’s coming soon, fellows. Looks like Scotia and Webster again. Sullivan’s just run the two-twenty; that’ll take the edge off him for the quarter-mile, Stevenson. How do you feel? And you, Dickie? It’ll be up to you soon. Feel fit for the fastest three hundred you ever ran in your life? Of course you do.”
“I wish Dickie had the other’s speed,” Ludwig whispered to MacArthur, high jumper and team captain.
“H-m-m, Mr. Ludwig—Dickie’s heart and Stevenson’s legs! Rather a lot for one package, wouldn’t it be?”
The clerk of the course here made an entrance. “Quarter-mile comes last of the track events. Sullivan of Scotia wants to get rested from the two-twenty, and judges agreed. All out for the long jump and hammer.”
Stevenson made a pettish face. “I suppose Sullivan and the Scotians can have things cooked to their order and the rest of us take what we can get. I think you ought to protest, Mr. Ludwig.”
Ludwig shook his head. “I can’t change the order of events, Stevenson. Besides, it’s only fair to give a man a rest after he’s been through a hard two-twenty. Take it easy, like Dickie, there. Go to sleep if you can. Dickie, can’t you find a mat to lie on? You have an hour to wait yet, and I don’t like to have you hugging the floor like that.”
“Oh, this is nice. Here’s my suit case for a pillow. I could go to sleep here.”
All things come to an end. The busy clerk of the course rushed in for the last time. “Quarter-mile now! Only one call—all out!”
Stevenson and Dickie promptly rose—Stevenson anxious in manner, fussy; Dickie serious, calm. Together they walked across the field, MacArthur and Ludwig in attendance. Every event had been finished except the pole-vault, always a lengthy affair. The audience was in a fine state of expectancy.
Just before reaching the track, Ludwig drew the boys’ heads together. “Now, Stevenson, this meet depends on you. We win it if you capture the five points for first place in the quarter. We lose it if you don’t. Dickie here is to be sacrificed for you. Keep your eye on Dickie; he’ll swing out and tell you when.
“And you, Dickie,” Ludwig went on, “make a way for Stevenson and balk Keswick. See that you have the pole on the last turn. Now go along. O Dickie, a moment!”
Ludwig dropped his arm round the boy’s neck. “This is in confidence, Dickie. MacArthur and I are afraid that Stevenson isn’t any too fond of his job to-day—that he doesn’t quite fancy a tilt with Sullivan. What do you think?”