ETHEL BROWN A HEROINE
DICKY was no longer asleep. Roger's slamming of the front door had
roused him and after drowsily rubbing his eyes he had rolled off his cot
and stared out of the window to see in what direction Roger was going,
for he recognized the footsteps of the brother he admired extravagantly.
Not seeing him from the front window he turned the latch of the door
that opened on the upper porch and looked out toward Mayville.
Again there was no Roger and the youngster, still only half awake,
wandered about the room hunting for amusement. The house was perfectly
quiet, for the Ethels, tired after their strenuous afternoon, were lying
in the hammocks behind the house, Ethel Blue working on a new basket and
Ethel Brown drawing a design that she hoped to develop into a stencil.
Dicky's cot was in Helen's room and she had accumulated on her bureau a
variety of souvenirs, most of which were pinned to the muslin that
framed her dressing glass. Dicky climbed on a chair and examined them
attentively. Most of them seemed to him quite valueless and he wondered
that a person as grown up as Helen should want to keep them.
Wandering into his mother's room his eye was attracted by a shining
tray on which stood an alcohol lamp. A box of matches lay beside it
ready for instant use if hot water should be needed in the night. Dicky
had not seen the lamp in action many times and never had he had the
privilege of lighting it. It seemed an unparalleled opportunity.
Its present situation was not convenient, however. The shelf it was on
was far too high. Still, that was easily remedied. Dragging forward a
chair he mounted upon it, secured his prize, and then laboriously
clambered down, breathing heavily from his exertions. Helen's bureau was
not so high and on it he placed his treasure, kneeling in front of it on
the chair which was still where he had left it.
Careful scrutiny resolved the apparatus into its parts. On top was a
cup. He took it off its tripod and laid it on the tray. The tripod
underneath held in its embrace a metal container--the thing out of which
the pretty blue flame had shot up when Mother set a match on top. Dicky
separated these two parts and pushed one to one side of the bureau and
one to the other.
Where had the matches gone to? There they were, on the floor, and their
rescue necessitated a scramble down and up again. They were safety
matches and the production of a light from their unresponsive heads was
only accomplished by accident after many attempts which strewed the
floor with broken bits of wood.
At last, Oh, joy! a flame flashed up and Dick in ecstasy slipped off the
cover of the lamp and dropped the match into the inside. It was a
rapturous sight. The light leaped tall and slender, and bent as a
breath of air from the window touched it.
Dicky leaned back in his seat and watched it as from an orchestra stall.
It was the prettiest thing he had ever personally produced and he was
proud of his handiwork.
A stronger puff made a fairy dance of flame. Another puff came in from
the door and crossed it and together they raced through the door into
mother's room and disappeared. But they seemed to have started a small
tempest of breezes. One after another dashed in from door and window and
played tag and jostled the flickering light. It bent this way and that
way and crouched back into its holder and then leaped out just in time
to meet a slap from a bold wind that drew heavily across the room and in
passing, sent the flame, Zip! against Helen's muslin draperies.
In a second they were ablaze, shooting upward toward the ceiling. Dicky
watched the fire, fascinated with its speed and its faint crackle as if
it were chuckling with amusement at its own pranks.
But fun never lasts very long; Dicky had found that out before. In a
minute pieces of muslin, all turned black now, began to float down on
him. The mirror was not so pretty as it had been, even with Helen's
silly souvenirs on it; indeed it had a queer look now as if it was cross
at what was going on. In fact, it cracked on one side with a noise like
a cat spitting with rage.
Dicky found himself too warm now that one of the muslin curtains from
the window had blown over and caught a piece of the flame on its
corner. It was nice to watch, but it was rather hot in this room and he
was tired of it anyway. He thought he would go down stairs and see if
the Ethels were at home.
But when he turned toward the entry door it was closed and another prank
of the wind had shut the door into Mother's room. He could not get out
anywhere except on to the roof of the porch and that had no stairs. The
room roared in his ears and a bit of the hot black stuff fell on his
hand. He rushed on to the porch and screamed a strong, piercing shriek
that sent all the blood in her body into Ethel Brown's heart when it
reached the back of the house and her ears.
With a leap she left the hammock and her drawing behind her and dashed
into the house.
"Dicky! Dicky!" she called frantically as she plunged upstairs. "Dicky!
Dicky!"
Into Mrs. Morton's room she ran and then pushed open the door into
Helen's. A rush of smoke and flame filled her mouth and made her eyes
smart.
"Dicky!" she screamed. "Dicky! Where are you?"
Chiming with the crackle of the fire she heard sobbing.
"Dicky!" she cried again. "Ethel's coming. Call me again."
She dropped to the floor where the smoke seemed lighter and under it she
saw a gleam of blue--Dicky's rompers--on the porch. Creeping on her
hands and knees she reached through the door and seized him by the
abundant fulness of his garments. He yelled remonstrance as she tried to
draw him back into the smoke-filled room.
"It's all right," she choked. "Shut your eyes and hold your nose. Don't
be afraid; Sister's got you," and with talk and wheedling she pulled him
through the porch door and across the floor to the entry door. As she
opened it the fresh draught caused a new outburst of flame. She managed
to shut it in. She and Dicky were safe on the outside.
"Run down stairs quick," she ordered Dicky; "run to James Hancock's and
tell him the house is on fire."
As she spoke a whimpering caught her ear. It came from Ethel Blue who
was crouching on the stairs.
"The house is on fire, don't you hear it?" shrieked Ethel Brown. "What's
the matter? Can't you help? Run and call 'Fire.' Run, I say."
Ethel Blue, stirred to life, disappeared, and Ethel Brown seized one of
the hand fire extinguishers which are in every Chautauqua cottage, and
attempted to open the door into Helen's room again. A scorching blast
drove her back and she gave up the attempt. Thrusting her head out of
the window she screamed "Fire," and at the same time saw Dicky running
safely toward the Hancocks'. Even in her terror she noticed that in
pulling him out of the burning room she had torn his ample bloomers. A
hanging rag streamed from them as he ran.
A new thought struck Ethel and she flung herself on the banisters and
slid to the foot. When she looked from the window she had seen the red
gleam of a fire alarm box on a tree almost in front of the house. She
rushed to it and beat on the glass with her fists.
Almost immediately the wild shriek of a siren tore the air. Footsteps
came running from all sides. She had been glad that it happened that no
one was at home, but she was equally glad when she saw Mary running from
the direction of the Pier. Margaret Hancock called to her that Dicky was
safe. Ethel waved her understanding, and seizing the hand of Ethel Blue
who appeared from somewhere and clung timidly to her skirt she ran back
into the house to get the silver from the dining-room.
"Take this and this and this," she whispered breathlessly, piling
Dicky's mug and a handful of forks and another of spoons into Ethel
Blue's upheld skirt. "Here's the butter dish. It's lucky we left the tea
set at home. Now then, take those to the Hancocks' and I'll go upstairs
and see if I can save any of our clothes."
"Oh, Ethel, I ought to go with you," whimpered Ethel Blue.
"Run, I tell you," commanded Ethel Brown who found herself growing
cooler every minute.
People were coming into the house now and rushing about with chairs in
their hands, uncertain where to set them down. A woman from the boarding
house next door began to carry out the china and lay it on the grass,
and Mary tossed pans out of the kitchen window and piled the wash tubs
full of groceries for the men to move.
From the lake front rose shouting and along the road came one of the
chemical engines hauled by the bellboys of the hotel. Another rolled
down the steep hill from the Post Office, these men struggling as hard
to hold it back as those from the hotel were pulling. Down the same hill
came the water hose, and yet other chemicals from the business block,
the Book Store, wherever they were kept ready for emergencies. For a few
minutes every man was a fire chief and every volunteer shouted commands
which he himself was the first to disobey.
But order developed in an amazingly short time. The boarding house
between the Mortons and the Hancocks caught fire in spite of the efforts
of a bucket brigade which tried to wet down the roof. Consternation
reigned when a shout drew the attention of the firemen to the flaming of
the sun-dried shingles in one corner and almost at the same moment to
the flash of a curtain fired by a mass of cinders whirled from the
Mortons' cottage right through an open window.
It was a shout of apprehension, for if this large building went it would
be increasingly difficult to save the houses closely crowded beyond. At
this critical instant the honk of an automobile horn drew the crowd's
attention. The unusual will do that even in times of stress and
automobiles are not allowed inside the Assembly grounds.
"It's Mayville! It's the Mayville hose," cried some one, and a hoarse
cry of satisfaction went through the onlookers. Just in the nick of time
they came, two hose wagons usually drawn by man power but now attached
to the automobiles of two public-spirited citizens who heard the
telephone summons and offered their cars which happened to be standing
at the sidewalk.
The salvage crew was working hard in both houses now, and the Hancocks
thought it best to remove some of their goods and chattels in case the
flames spread beyond the boarding house. The helpers were increased by
the audience from the organ recital in the Amphitheatre who left the
program unfinished at the first note of the siren. An unceasing
procession marched from the burning and the threatened cottages to
Miller Park bearing china and glass and furniture. Some one threw
Grandmother Emerson's trunk out of the window. It proved not to be
locked and its contents spurted all over the walk before the house.
Ethel Brown saw it and stuffed clothes and books back into it and called
to two men to take it away. Some excited person in the boarding house
began to toss bureau drawers down from the top of the front porch. Most
of them broke when they struck the ground but the people below gathered
up the collars and cravats and underwear and ran with them to the Park.
A young girl who was found wandering about the lower floor carefully
carrying half an apple pie which she had rescued from the pantry was led
in the same direction.
Mrs. Emerson, rushing across the green from her embroidery lesson on the
veranda of the Arcade, met Margaret Hancock tugging Dicky along in the
direction of the lawn. He was sobbing wildly and his grandmother took
him in her arms and sat down on a chair amid the piles of furniture to
comfort him. From the direction of the Hall of Philosophy where they had
been awaiting the coming of the Reading Hour came Mrs. Morton and Mr.
Emerson, breaking into a run as they approached near enough to see that
the fire was in the direction of their cottage. As they rushed across
Miller Park they almost stumbled over Ethel Blue, curled up miserably on
top of the old stump that is said to have supported many eloquent
orators in the olden days.
"Are you hurt, dear child? Quick, tell me," demanded Mrs. Morton, while
her father ran on to the scene of action.
"I'm not hurt. It's our house. I didn't help Ethel," cried the child.
"Where is Ethel? Is Dicky safe?"
The questions seemed to increase the child's agony.
"Can't you tell me? Oh, there's Grandmother with Dicky. Stay with her.
And--listen to me--"
Her aunt seized Ethel by the arm and looked her squarely in the eyes.
"You're perfectly safe here. Try to control yourself. Do whatever
Grandmother says."
But the child was too wretched to be of any assistance until Mrs.
Emerson gave her a specified task.
"Take Dicky over to the Arcade," she directed, "and keep him there. Then
I can go and help."
Ethel Blue obeyed miserably, for her very soul was ashamed of her fear.
Her father a soldier and she this weeping, curled-up bunch of
cowardice! She burst into tears again as she crossed the green. Dicky,
whom Mrs. Emerson had only partially succeeded in quieting, broke into
renewed cries and the two soon became the center of a group of women
whose sympathy served to increase the children's demonstrations.
"Poor lambs, they're frightened to death," said a cool, sweet voice, and
a pink-cheeked, white-haired woman made her way through the throng and
spoke to Ethel Blue.
"Come in where it is quiet," she said. "Now drink this water and bathe
your eyes and sit down here quietly. Show the little boy these
pictures," she directed, and Ethel, having something definite to do,
obeyed her.
"I shall be just outside here if you need me. There's nothing to be
afraid of."
Back at the fire the helpers were increased by the arrival of the
onlookers at the baseball game. They had come on the run from the lower
end of the grounds, the two teams, the umpire, and the scorer bringing
up the rear. Roger and James and Helen were with this crowd, and they
dashed frantically into action when they found out what houses were
involved. James helped the men who were recharging the chemical engines.
Helen joined the procession carrying household goods to the Park.
"Where are the children?" Roger screamed into his grandfather's ear
above the throb of the water from the hose wagons.
"There's Ethel Brown carrying those clothes. Your mother's in Miller
Park. I don't know where the others are. I'm going in to find your
grandmother," and while Roger rushed after Ethel to question her the old
gentleman dashed into the burning cottage and straight up the stairs to
his wife's room.
It was only a few minutes before he was brought out again by two of the
firemen and stretched on the beach by the lake, with a doctor from the
crowd working over him and a nurse who had left her rest hour at the
hospital to run to the fire, helping him give first-aid. When he
recovered consciousness they summoned help and carried him to Miller
Park and laid him on a mattress while the physician went back to see if
his services were required by any other sufferers.
Fortunately for Mr. Emerson's peace of mind his wife soon discovered him
and told him of the safety of all the other members of the family.
It was almost dark when the "All out" signal sounded from the
fire-house, and the Mortons began to think of where they should spend
the night. Offers of shelter were plentiful both to them and to the
boarders, but Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Emerson accepted Mrs. Hancock's
offer. The Hancocks owned the cottage on the other side of the one the
Mortons had been occupying. By good luck, it seemed now, it had not been
let for the summer, and by greater good luck it had come out of the fire
unscathed, thanks to the direction of the wind. It was furnished and
ready for use, and Mrs. Hancock and Margaret and James busied
themselves carrying over bedding and towels and table linen. Roger and
several neighbors bore Mr. Emerson from the Park on his mattress and
established him in a comfortable lower bedroom. Ethel Blue and Dicky
were found by Mrs. Morton in the art store and brought home. Helen was
sent to the Indiana Cottage to order supper sent in, for Mary's
department would not be in order until the next day.
Every member of the family was accounted for when the Director of the
Institution stopped at the porch to see if he could do anything for
their comfort.
"This young woman is a heroine," he said, patting Ethel Brown's
shoulder. "I watched her all through and she behaved like a grown
woman."
Ethel Brown, her skirt torn, her blouse smoke-begrimed and her face
dirty, smiled at him shyly, and murmured "Thank you."