Andy at Yale Part 6

Following a long picture reel a girl came out to sing. She was pretty and vivacious, though her songs were commonplace enough. In one of the stage boxes were a number of young fellows, not from Milton, and they began to ogle the singer, who did not seem averse to their attentions.

She edged over to their box, and threw a rose to one of the occupants.

Gallantly enough he tossed back one he was wearing, but at that moment a companion in front of him had raised a lighted match to his cigarette.

The hand of the young man throwing the rose to the singer struck the flaring match and sent it over the rail of the box straight at the flimsy skirts of the performer.

In an instant the tulle had caught fire, and a fringe of flame shot upward.

The singer ceased her song with a scream that brought the orchestra to a stop with a cras.h.i.+ng chord, and the girl's cries of horror were echoed by the women in the audience. The girl started to run into the wings, but Andy, springing from his seat on the aisle, made a leap for the bra.s.s rail behind the musicians.

"Stand still! Stand still! Don't go back there in the draft!" cried Andy, as he jumped upon the stage over the head of the orchestra leader and began stripping off his coat.

CHAPTER V

FINAL DAYS

"Fire! Fire!" yelled some foolish ones in the audience.

"Keep still!" shouted Tom Hatfield, who well knew the danger of a panic in a hall with few exits. "Keep still! Play something!" he called to the orchestra leader, who was staring at Andy, dazed at the flying leap of the lad over his head. "Play any old tune!"

It was this that saved the day. The leader tapped with his violin bow on the tin shade over his electric light and the dazed musicians came to attention. They began on the number the girl had been singing. It was like the irony of fate to hear the strains of a sentimental song when the poor girl was in danger of death. But the music quieted the audience. Men and women sank back in their seats, watching with fear-widened eyes the actions of Andy Blair.

And while Tom had thus effectively stopped the incipient panic, Andy had not been idle. Working with feverish haste, he had wrapped his heavy coat about the girl, smothering the flames. She was sobbing and screaming by turns.

"There! There!" cried Andy. "Keep quiet. I have the fire out. You're in no danger!"

"Oh--oh! But--but the fire----"

"It's out, I tell you!" insisted Andy. "It was only a little blaze!"

He could see tiny tongues of flame where his coat did not quite reach, and with swift, quick pats of his bare hands he beat them out, burning himself slightly. He took good care not to let the flames shoot up, so that the frantic girl would inhale them. That meant death, and her escape had been narrow enough as it was.

As Andy held the coat closely about her he glanced over toward the box whence the match had come. He saw the horror-stricken young men looking at him and the girl in fascination, but they had not been quick to act.

After all, it was an accident and the fault of no one in particular.

The stage was now occupied by several other performers, and the frantic manager. But it was all over. Andy patted out the last of the smouldering sparks. The girl was swaying and he looked up in time to see that she was going to faint.

"Look out!" he cried, and caught her in his arms.

"Back this way! Carry her back here!" ordered the manager, motioning to the wings. "Keep that music going!" he added to the orchestra leader.

They carried the unfortunate little singer to a dressing room, and a doctor was summoned. One of the stage hands brought Andy's coat to him.

The garment was seared and scorched, and rank with the odor of smoke.

"If you don't want to wear it I'll see Mr. Wallack, and get another for you," offered the man.

"Oh, this isn't so bad," said Andy, slipping it on. "It's an old one, anyhow."

He looked curiously about him. It was the first time he had been behind the scenes, though there was not as much to observe in this little theatre as in a larger one. Beyond the dropped curtain he could hear the strains of the music and the murmur in the audience. The show had come to a sudden ending, and many were departing.

As Andy was leaving, to go back to his chums, the doctor came in hastily, and hurried to the room of the performer.

"Say, some little hero act, eh, Andy?" exclaimed Chet, as Andy rejoined his friends.

"Forget it!" was the retort. "Tom, here, had his wits about him."

"All right, old man. But you never got down the field after a football punt any quicker than you hurdled that orchestra leader, and made a flying tackle of that singer!" exclaimed Tom, admiringly. "My hat off to you, Andy, old boy!"

"Same here!" cried Chet.

The young men in the box were talking to the manager, and the one who had knocked the lighted match on the stage came over to speak to Andy, who was standing with his chums in the aisle near their seats.

"Thanks, very much, old man!" exclaimed the chap whose impulsive act had so nearly caused a tragedy. "It was mighty fine of you to do that. I had heart failure when I saw her on fire."

"You couldn't help it," replied Andy. "They ought not to allow smoking in places like this."

"That's right. Next time I throw a rose at a girl I'll look to see what's going to happen."

The theatre was almost deserted by now. All that remained to tell of the accident was the smell of smoke, and a few bits of charred cloth on the stage.

A man came out in front of the curtain.

"Miss Fuller wants to see the young fellow who put out the fire," he announced.

"That's you, Andy!" cried his chums.

"Aw, I'm not going back there."

"Yes, she would like to see you. She wants to thank you," put in the stage manager. "Come along."

Rather bashfully Andy went back. He found the singer--a mere girl--propped up on a couch. Her arms and hands were in bandages, but she did not seem to have been much burned.

"I'm sorry I can't shake hands with you," she said, with a smile. She was pale, for the "make-up" had been washed from her face.

"Oh, that's all right," responded Andy, a bit embarra.s.sed.

"It was awfully good and brave of you," she went on, with a catch in her voice. "I don't--I don't know how to thank you. I--I just couldn't seem to do anything for myself. It was--awful," and her voice broke.

"Oh, it might have been worse," spoke Andy, and he knew that it wasn't just the thing to say. But, for the life of him, he could not fit proper words together. "I'm glad you're all right, Miss Fuller," he said. He had seen her name on the bills--Mazie Fuller. He wondered whether it was her right one, or a stage cognomen. At any rate, he decided from a casual glance, she was very pretty.

"You must give me your address," the girl went on. "I want to pay for the coat you spoiled on my account."

"Oh, that's all right," and Andy was conscious that he was blus.h.i.+ng. "It isn't hurt a bit. I'll have to be going now."

"Oh, you must let me have your name and address," the girl went on.