EMBER NIGHT
The three girls of Central High and their boy friends had not come together
on this stormy Saturday morning merely to feast on "pie and poetry."
The ice carnival had made them so much money that Laura and her friends
desired to try something else besides the play which was now in rehearsal.
They wanted to "keep the ball rolling," increasing the collections for the
Red Cross from day to day.
Fairs and bazaars were being held; special collectors like Janet Steele
were going about the city; noonday meetings were inaugurated in downtown
churches and halls; a dozen new and old ways of raising money were being
tried.
And so Mother Wit had evolved what she called "Ember Night," and the young
people who helped carry the thing through were delighted with the idea. To
tell the truth, the idea had been suggested to Laura Belding during the big
storm when the lighting plant of the city was put out of order for one
night.
She and her friends laid the plans for the novel fête on this Saturday
after Laura's pie baking and after they had discussed the possibility of
Prettyman Sweet being the guilty person whose car had run down the strange
man now at the Centerport Hospital.
They put pies and poetry, and even Purt Sweet, aside, to discuss Laura's
idea. Each member of the informal committee meeting in the Beldings'
kitchen was given his or her part to do.
Laura herself was to see Colonel Swayne, who was the president of the Light
and Power Company and who was likewise Mother Wit's very good friend. Jess
agreed to interview the local chief of the Salvation Army. Chet would see
the Chief of Police to get his permission. Each one had his or her work cut
put.
"Every cat must catch mice," said Mother Wit.
Plans for Ember Night were swiftly made, and it was arranged to hold the
fête the next Tuesday evening, providing the weather was clear. Jess, whose
mother held a position on the Centerport _Clarion_, wrote a piece about
this street carnival for the Sunday paper, and the idea was popular with
nearly every one.
Exchange Place was the heart of the city--a wide square on which fronted
the city hall, the court house, the railroad station, and several other of
the more important buildings of the place.
In the center of the square a Red Cross booth was built and trimmed with
Christmas greens, which had just come into market. Members of the several
city chapters appeared in uniform to take part in the fête. There was a
platform for speakers, and a bandstand, and before eight o'clock on Tuesday
evening a great crowd had assembled to take part in the exercises.
That one of the Central High school girls had suggested and really planned
the affair, made it all the more popular.
"What won't Laura Belding think of next?" asked those who knew her.
But Laura did not put herself forward in the affair. She presided over one
of the red pots borrowed from the Salvation Army that were slung from their
tripods at each intersecting corner of the streets radiating from Exchange
Place, and for a half mile on all sides of the square.
Under each pot was a bundle of resinous and oil-soaked wood that would burn
brightly for an hour. At the booth in Exchange Place fuel for a much larger
bonfire was laid.
The crowd gathered more densely as nine o'clock drew near. The mayor
himself stepped upon the speaker's platform. The police had roped off lanes
through the crowd from the Red Cross booth to the nearest corners.
Janet Steele came late and she chanced to pass Laura's corner, which was in
sight of the speaker's stand and the booth. She halted to speak with Laura
a moment.
"Isn't it just fine?" she said. "I wish mother could see this crowd."
"I imagine you would like to have her see lots of things," returned Laura.
"Our friend at the hospital, for instance."
"Who--who do you mean?" gasped Janet, evidently disturbed.
"The man who was hurt, I mean."
"Oh! He is quite interesting," said the other girl and slipped away.
Laura's suggestion had seemingly startled her.
The band played, and then the mayor stepped forward to make his speech. At
just this moment a motor car moved quietly in beside the curb near which
Laura Belding stood guarding her red pot. Somebody called her name in a low
tone, and Laura turned to greet Prettyman Sweet's mother with a smile.
Mrs. Sweet was alone in the tonneau of her car, which Purt himself was
driving. The school exquisite, who was so often the butt of the boys'
jokes, but was just now an object of suspicion, admired Laura Belding
immensely. He got out of the car to come and stand with her on the corner.
"Got your nonskid-chains on, Purt?" asked Laura.
"On the rear wheels? Surely," said Sweet, eyeing the girl in some surprise,
because of her question.
"My dear Laura!" cried Mrs. Sweet "Won't you come and talk to me while we
are waiting?"
"Can't now, Mrs. Sweet. I am on duty," laughed Laura.
They could not hear what the mayor said, for they were two blocks away. But
they had an excellent view of the stand and the Red Cross booth, and the
crowd that pressed close to the police ropes.
Suddenly the mayor threw up his hand in command, and almost instantly--as
though he had himself switched off the light--all the street lamps in the
business section of Centerport went out The arc light over the spot where
Laura stood blinked, glowed for a moment, and then subsided. Mrs. Sweet
cried out in alarm.
"This is all right," Laura called to her. "Now watch."
The mayor, in the half-darkness, stepped down from the platform and threw
into the heart of the big bonfire the combustibles that set it off. The
flames leaped up, spreading rapidly. The crowd cheered as eight boys,
dressed in the knee-length dominos they had worn on the night of the ice
carnival, dashed into the ring with resinous torches. They thrust the
torches into the flames and the instant the torches were alight, they
wheeled and dashed away through the lanes the police had kept open.
The red flames dancing before the Red Cross booth, and the sparking,
flaming torches which the boys swung above their heads as they ran through
the crowd to the various corners where the red pots hung, made an inspiring
picture in the unwonted gloom of the streets.
"See how the Red Cross spreads!" cried Laura. "There's Nellie's fire
going."
They could see the spark of new fire under the pot a block away. A short
figure with flaming torch was approaching Laura's corner at high speed.
"Here comes Short and Long, I do believe," drawled Prettyman Sweet.
"My pot will soon be boiling," laughed Laura. "What are you going to throw
in, Purt? And you, Mrs. Sweet? Give all you can--and as often as you can."
"Oh, I'll start you off, Laura," declared Purt, pulling out a handful of
coins that rang the next moment in the bottom of the iron pot.
"Here's my purse, Prettyman!" called his mother, leaning from the car. "You
put in my offering."
The few bystanders around Laura's corner began laughingly to contribute
before the torch reached the spot. But Short and Long arrived the next
moment. He stooped, thrust the blazing torch into the middle of the fuel
under Laura's pot, and wheeled to run to his next comer.
The flames crackled, springing up ravenously. The boy's cotton gown flapped
across the fire and before he could leap away the flames had seized upon
the domino!
"Oh, Billy!" shrieked Laura Belding. "You are on fire!"
The short boy leaped away; but he could not leave the flames behind him. He
threw down the torch and tried to tear off the domino. In a moment he was a
pillar of flame!
"A blanket! A robe! Quick, Purt!" cried Laura, and started toward the
victim of the accident, bare-handed.
For once Purt Sweet did as he was told, and did it quickly. He ran with the
robe from the front seat of the automobile. Laura grabbed one end and
together they wrapped their schoolmate in the heavy folds.
Short and Long was cast to the street and they rolled him in the blanket.
The fire was smothered, but what injury had it done to the boy?
He was unconscious; for in falling he had struck his head, and the wound
was bleeding. Mrs. Sweet was crying and wringing her hands.
"Oh, it's awful! Purt! Purt! Take me home!" she sobbed.
"No, Purt!" exclaimed Laura. "Take him to the hospital"
"Of course we will," gasped the youth. "Help me lift him, Laura. Oh, the
poor kid!"
Only the few people near by had seen the accident. Not even a policeman
came. Laura and Purt staggered to the car with the wrapped-up body of the
smaller lad. His face was horribly blackened, but that might be nothing but
smoke. Just how badly Billy Long was injured they could not guess.
Mrs. Sweet shrank back into the corner of the tonneau seat and begged Laura
to get in with the injured boy.
"I can't! I can't touch him!" wailed the woman. "It's awful! Suppose he
should be dead?"
"He's not dead," declared Purt. "We won't let him die--the poor kid! Here,
mother, you hold his head and we'll lay him down on the seat. Let his head
and shoulders lie right in your lap."
"Oh, Laura! Do come!" cried the woman.
"I can't, Mrs. Sweet!" returned Laura, sobbing. "I've got to stay and watch
my pot boil. Do be quick, Purt!"
She stepped out of the car. Purt slammed the tonneau door and leaped to the
steering wheel. In a moment the self-starter sputtered, and then the car
wheels began to roll.
Mrs. Sweet was actually forced to do something that she had never done
before--personally help somebody in trouble. Perhaps the experience would
do her good, Laura thought.
In tears the latter returned to the corner. The fire was brightly blazing
underneath her swinging pot. There was already quite a collection of coins
and a few bills in the bottom of the receptacle. But although Laura stuck
to the post of duty, her heart was no longer in the ceremonies of Ember
Night. She wished heartily that she had never suggested the entertainment,
even if it did benefit the Red Cross.