pleasant little thrill to the listener’s heart.
Brrrm!
Brrrm!
Brrrrr—_um_ dum!
The children jumped with delight, and the line started off, the Imp
drumming for dear life around the inside of the big square, and Miss
Eleanor keeping the hasty ones back and hurrying the stragglers, trying
to make big Hans feel the rhythm, and suppressing Pierre’s happy little
skips.
After a half-hour of this they begged to try the halls and stairs, and
the Imp stood proudly on the landings, keeping always at about the middle
of the line, stamping his right foot in time with his sticks, his eyes
shining with joy, his little body straight as a dart.
Miss Eleanor was delighted. The boys responded so well to her little talk
on protecting the girls and waiting till they were placed before taking
their own stand in the line, the girls stood so straight, the little
ones entered so well into the spirit of the thing, that she felt that
afternoon to have been one of the best they had had, and confided as much
to the Imp on their journey home.
As for the Imp, he had a new interest in life, and talked of little else
than the fire-drill for days. There was no question as to his going the
next Thursday, and he and his drum formed the chief attraction of the
day, for the drill proved the most popular game of all, and after the
proclamation had gone forth that none but clean-handed, neatly dressed,
respectful boys need aspire to head the line, such boys were in a great
and satisfying majority.
For a month they had been practicing regularly, and by the end of that
time every child knew his place and took it instantly at the opening
tap. It was pretty to see little Olga shake back her yellow pigtails and
marshal her tiny brood into line; even the smallest of them kept step
nicely now.
Only big Hans could not learn, and Pierre walked by his side in vain,
trying to make him feel the rhythm of the Imp’s faithful drumsticks.
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?”
“Stevenson afraid? Oh, no, Mr. Ludwig! Stevie’s nervous—that’s natural.
Why, I’m nervous, for all you crack up my coolness. I’m nervous as I can
be, but I try not to show it, and Stevie lets his out. Stevie will win.
Look at him up on his toes now! Style! He’s won three-quarters of the
crowd already, just the gait of him. Don’t worry, Mr. Ludwig, Webster’ll
win this quarter-mile.”
“Well, all right, Dickie. I hope you’re right. Hope he’s only nervous.
Look out for him, anyway. But don’t try to do it too fast—don’t kill
yourself. If you can, you might just as well finish; you don’t know,
somebody might drop and you pick up a point. Not much of a chance for
you, but—”