by A. A. Milne
“I tell you to come on!” complained Mr. Bulson, Senior. He was really a slave to the crippled boy’s whims; but he disliked being near Nan Sherwood, or seeing Junior so friendly with her. “You can’t know that girl, if the dog does,” he snarled.
“Why, yes I can, Pop,” said the lame boy, with cheerful insistence. “And I want to hear about her being snowed up in a train with Buster.”
“Your father can tell you all about it,” Nan said, kindly, not wishing to make Mr. Bulson any angrier. “He was there in the snowed-up train, too. That’s how I came to be acquainted with your little dog. He was with your father on the train.”
“Why, Pop!” cried the eager boy. “You never told me a word about it. And you must know this girl.”
Mr. Ravell Bulson only grunted and scowled.
“What’s your name, girl?” cried the boy, curiously.
“I am Nan Sherwood,” the girl said, kissing him and then giving him a gentle push toward his father’s outstretched and impatient hand. “If I don’t see you again I shall often think of you. Be good to Buster.”
“You must tell me about being snowed up, Pop,” urged little Junior, as Nan turned away. “And I like that girl.”
“That isn’t much to tell— and I don’t like her— nor any of her name,” snapped Mr. Bulson.
“But you’ll tell me about the snowed-up train?”
“Yes, yes!” cried his father, impatiently, anxious to get his lame son away from Nan’s vicinity. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
Nan was quite sure that the fat man would be ashamed to give his little son the full particulars of his own experience on the stalled train. The little chap, despite his affliction, was an attractive child and seemed to have inherited none of his father’s unhappy disposition.
“Good bye, Nan Sherwood!” he cried after the girl. “Come, Buster! Come, Buster! My, Pop! Buster likes that girl!”
“Well, I don’t,” declared the fat man, still scowling at Nan.
“Don’t you?” cried Junior. “That’s funny. I like her, and Buster likes her, and you don’t, Pop. I hope I’ll see you again, Nan Sherwood.”
His father almost dragged him away, the spaniel, on a leash, cavorting about the lame boy. Nan was amazed by the difference in the behavior of Mr. Bulson and his afflicted son.
“And won’t he be surprised when he learns that it wasn’t Papa Sherwood, after all, but that wicked negro porter, who stole his wallet and watch?” Nan mused. “I hope they find the man and punish him. But— it really does seem as though Mr. Bulson ought to be punished, too, for making my father so much trouble.”
Later “Nosey” Thompson was captured; but he had spent all Mr. Bulson’s money in a drunken spree, and while intoxicated had been robbed of the watch. So, in the end, the quarrelsome fat man, who had so maligned Mr. Sherwood and caused him so much trouble, recovered nothing— not even his lost temper.
“Which must be a good thing,” was Bess Harley’s comment. “For if I had a temper like his, I’d want to lose it— and for good and all!”
“But there must be some good in that fat man,” Nan said, reflectively.
“Humph! Now find some excuse for him, Nan Sherwood!” said her chum.
“No. Not an excuse. He maligned Papa Sherwood and I can’t forgive him. But his little boy thinks the world of him, I can see; and Mr. Bulson is very fond of the little boy— ’Junior,’ as he calls him.”
“Well,” quoth Bess, “so does a tiger-cat love its kittens. He’s a gouty, grumpy old fellow, with an in-growing grouch. I couldn’t see a mite of good in him with a spyglass.”
Her chum laughed heartily at that statement. “Well, let us hope he will keep so far away from us after this that we will have to use a spyglass to see him at all.”
“And there’s another person who can stay away from us,” said Bess, suddenly.
“Who’s that?” queried Nan, looking up at the change in Bess’ voice.
“Linda Riggs. She’s coming this way,” Bess said, tartly.
This conversation occurred in the skating rink, and while Nan was having her skates strapped on by an attendant, for Walter Mason was not at the moment in sight.
The haughty daughter of the railroad president evidently proposed speaking with the chums from Tillbury. They had not seen her since the runaway and more than once Nan had wondered just what attitude Linda would take when they again met.
For Nan’s part, she would rather not have met the rich girl at all. She had no particular ill-feeling toward her now; although time was when Linda had done all in her power to hurt Nan’s reputation— and that not so very long past. But having actually helped to save the girl’s life, Nan Sherwood could not hold any grudge against Linda. Bess, on the other hand, bristled like an angry dog when she saw Linda approach.
Linda came skating along warily, and arrived at the chums’ bench by a series of graceful curves. She was rather a good skater, but more showy than firm on her skates.
“Oh, girls! I’m awful glad to see you,” Linda cried, boisterously— and that boisterousness doubtless was assumed to cover her natural embarrassment at meeting again the girl whom she had so injured. “I didn’t have time,” pursued Linda, hurriedly, “the other day, to thank you properly— or Walter— for helping me out of that sleigh. I was scared.”
“I should think you would have been,” Bess said, rather grimly. “I’m sure I thought you would never get out of it alive.”
“Well,” repeated Linda, more doubtfully, for Nan had remained silent, “I wanted to thank you for what you did for me.”
“You needn’t thank me,” said Bess, sharply. “For I didn’t do a thing.”
“Well, Nan Sherwood did, I s’pose,” Linda observed, her color rising.
“You are heartily welcome if you think you need to thank me, Linda,” Nan said, quietly. “But Walter really did it all.”
“Of course!” said Linda, tossing her head, for Bess’ manner had rasped the rich girl, “I know it took Walter to do it. But I presumed you girls expected to be thanked, too,” and she turned sharply away.
“Oh, Bess! we ought not to have spoken as we did,” murmured Nan, contritely.
“Pooh! Let her go. Mean old thing!” exclaimed Bess. “And you didn’t say anything to get her mad. Crocodile tears! what did I tell you? Linda Riggs is a regular cat— ”
“Both cat and crocodile?” giggled Nan. “Your natural history, Bess, honey, must be slightly twisted.”
“I’ve about got that girl’s number, just the same,” said Bess, slangily. “You wait, Nan. She’ll be just as mean when we get to Lakeview Hall as ever she was. Mark my word.”
“All right, Worthy Prophetess,” said Nan, seriously. “I mark thee well. But I am afraid we are in the wrong this time. We should have encouraged her attempt to be grateful.”
She had no idea— nor had Nan Sherwood herself— that it lay within Linda’s power, if it did in her wish, to injure Nan further. But Fate weaves strange webs of ordinary circumstances and that very evening Nan Sherwood came in close contact with Linda Riggs again, and the incident savored of a new peril, as keen as it was unexpected.
Walter was a minute late at the dinner table that night and as he slid into his seat beside Nan, after excusing himself to his mother and receiving her absolution in a smile, he whispered to Nan:
“What’s ‘on’ for after dinner?”
“I really do not know of anything, Walter,” she replied, smiling. “Don’t you suppose we girls ever want to keep quiet? This visit to your house has been one continual round of pleasure— ”
“Yes. You get your pleasure out of rescuing kids from the street, chasing runaway horses, hunting for runaway girls, and playing Sister of Charity to sick people. Say! your idea of pleasure, Nan Sherwood, is simply funny. Now, I’ve got something on for this evening, if you, and Bess, and Grace— and the kid, of course—want to go. But no crowd. My exchequer will not stand it.
“I’m running low in
funds and father won’t let me overdraw my allowance, although he lets Grace do it almost every month. He says a girl hasn’t any head for figures, anyway, and she’s to be excused.”
“Oh, my!” gasped Nan. “That maligns the sex. I ought not to allow that, Walter Mason.”
“Huh!” returned the boy, grinning. “Grace doesn’t mind how much the sex is maligned, I warrant, as long as father hands her out an extra five whenever she runs short.”
“But you haven’t told me what the scheme is for this evening,” Nan reminded him.
“Movies,” Walter said. “There’s a dandy new theatre opened on Halliburton Street. It isn’t far, and mother approves of the class of pictures they run. There are going to be some funny ones shown to-night, too. I’ll stand treat for you girls— but no more.”
“Dear me, Walter,” cried Nan. “You spend all your money on us girls.”
“It couldn’t go in a better cause,” retorted the generous boy, stoutly.
Permission for the evening’s outing was easily obtained, and the quintette of pleasure-seeking young folk hurried away immediately after dinner, so as to see the first show and get home early. Little Inez was as eager and excited as she could be over the prospect of seeing a real movie show.
“I seen some pictures once in a dance hall where a man let me sell me flowers,” she explained. “But, I never dared spend a nickel for no show. Me aunt would have scalped me— sure she would!”
Mr. Sherwood had seen Inez’s aunt that afternoon, at his little daughter’s request, and found that the woman dared make no objection as to their disposal of the child. In fact, she seemed a good deal relieved that kind friends had been raised for Inez.
The party arrived at the new picture palace to find a goodly crowd already assembled at the entrance. On this opening night there was a good deal of local interest shown, and the first picture was being finished when Nan Sherwood and her friends crowded into their seats.
“That’s a good picture, I warrant,” Walter said. “We want to stay and see that run over again. Ah-ha! here comes a Keynote Comedy. That will be a funny one, sure.”
“I like to laugh,” announced Inez, with her most serious air. “But I ain’t never had much time for it.”
“You poor little mite,” said Bess. “I should say you hadn’t. But you’ll laugh all right when you get home with us to Tillbury. Won’t she, Nan?”
“Of course she will,” agreed Nan, squeezing the little one close to her.
They did not, however, laugh much at the picture which followed. The reels did not seem to run very evenly. Either the operator was not an experienced one or there was something the matter with the machine. The flash-card, “Wait a minute, please,” appeared so frequently on the screen that the audience began to murmur, and some got up and went out.
There were others ready to take their places, and this continual changing of positions in the half-darkness of the house made a confusion that was hard to bear.
Nan and her friends moved over against the wall and another party came rustling in to take the seats in that row nearest to the aisle. Not until this crowd was seated did the party from the Mason house realize that it was anybody whom they knew.
Then Pearl Graves’ rather loud voice broke in upon Nan and Walter’s whispered conversation:
“Why! see who’s here?” she cried. “Hullo, Walter Mason. Who’s that you’ve got with you? Nan Sherwood, I’ll be bound. And Grace, and Bess Harley. Hullo, girls! Is the show any good?”
“For goodness’ sake!” interposed the sharp voice of the girl on the other side of Pearl. “Can’t we go anywhere without running up against that Nan Sherwood and her crowd?”
“Oh, you be still, Linda!” laughed good-natured Pearl. “You ought to be pleased as Punch to see Nan and Walter. Between them they just about saved your life when Granny Graves’ horses ran away with you the other day.”
Little Inez was on Nan’s other side and immediately Nan gave her attention to the child, leaving Walter free to talk with the new-comers if he chose.
“Did you like that picture, dear?” asked Nan of the little one.
“Hi! I liked it where the fat man slipped up on the soap at the top of the stairs and slid to the bottom where the scrub-woman left her tub of water. Do you ‘spect that was real water, Nan Sherwood? He’d ha’ been drowned, wouldn’t he?”
“I guess it was real water,” laughed Nan. “But they wouldn’t let him be drowned in a picture.”
“I forget it’s a picture,” sighed little Inez, exhibiting thereby true dramatic feeling for the art of acting. To her small mind the pantomime seemed real.
Another reel was started. The projection of it flickered on the screen until it dazzled one’s eyes to try to watch it.
“Goodness!” gasped Pearl Graves. “I hope that won’t keep up.”
The excited little Hebrew who owned the theatre ran, sputtering, up the aisle, and climbed into the gallery to expostulate with the operator. There was an explosion of angry voices from the operator’s box when the proprietor reached it.
The reel was halted again— this time without the projection of the usual “Wait a minute, please,” card. The next instant there was another explosion; but not of voices.
A glare of greenish flame was projected from the box in the gallery where the machine was located— then followed a series of crackling, snapping explosions!
It was indeed startling, and there were a general craning of necks and excited whispering in the audience; but it might have gone no further had it not been for Linda Riggs.
It could not have been with malice— for the result swept Linda herself into the vortex of excitement and peril that followed; but the railroad president’s daughter shrieked at the loudest pitch of her voice:
“Fire! fire! We’ll all be burned to death! Fire!”
“Be still!” “Sit down!” were commands that instantly sounded from all parts of the house.
But the mischief was done, and Linda continued to shriek in apparently an abandonment of terror:
“Fire! Fire!”
Other nervous people took up the cry. Nearly half a thousand spectators were seated in the picture theatre and the smell of smoke was in their nostrils and the glare of fire above them.
For something, surely, was burning in the operator’s box. The danger of the inflammable film was in the minds of all. A surge of the crowd toward the main exit signaled the first panic.
The outgoing rush was met by those who (not understanding the commotion) had been waiting at the back for seats. These people would not give way easily as the frightened audience pushed up the main aisle.
Those at the sides escaped more easily, for there was an exit on either side of the audience room. In the case of Nan Sherwood and her party, however, they were in the worst possible position as far as quick escape went. By some oversight of the fire inspectors the seats on several front rows had been built close against the sidewalls, with no passage at that end of the rows for entrance or egress.
Bess was next to the wall, and she jumped up, crying: “Oh, come on, girls! let’s get out. Walter! I say, Walter! I’m frightened. Let us go.”
Grace was crying.
Nan hugged Inez close to her and looked to Walter, too, to extricate them from their situation. But Linda had reached across her cousin, Pearl Graves, and clawed at Walter in abject terror. “Oh, save me! save me, Walter!” she moaned. “I am so afraid of fire— and in a place like this! Oh! oh!”
“Shut that girl’s mouth!” exclaimed one man from the front. “Stop that screaming! There is no danger! The fire is confined to the box, and that is made of sheet iron. We’re all right. Don’t crowd!”
The panic had, however, spread too far.
The mob struggled and fought at the main doors. The police had been summoned; but they could not get into the building through the main entrance, and the side exits were toward the rear. Several people were knocked down and trampled on. A pungent odor of b
urning filled the theatre; the crackling of the flames grew louder and louder.
Walter had his hands full with Linda and Pearl, who had become likewise panic-stricken. Nan pushed Grace and Bess back toward the wall.
“Stand right where you are. We mustn’t get in that crowd. We’ll be killed,” advised she, holding little Inez close to her.
“Save me! save me, Walter!” wailed Linda.
“I wish somebody would take this girl out of the way!” growled Walter Mason in much disgust, and far from gallant.
“Don’t leave me!” shrieked Linda.
People began madly to climb over the seats— and over one another— to reach the side exits.
“How ever will we get out, Nan?” demanded Bess Harley, with keen faith in her chum.
“Keep still. Let us wait,” urged Nan.
But at that instant red and yellow flames burst from the box where the picture projecting machine was housed. These flames began to lick up the furnishings of the balcony like so much tinder. Sparks and dense smoke were thrown off and both settled upon the struggling people below.
“Oh, Walter! Walter! We shall be burned,” cried his sister.
The boy had never yet neglected his timid sister’s cry. He somewhat rudely pushed Linda away and reached across Nan and Inez to seize Grace’s hand.
“Pluck up your courage, Sis!” he cried, his voice rising cheerfully above the turmoil. “We’ll get out all right.”
“But how?” demanded Bess, in great anxiety. “Oh! see those sparks fly!”
“I see,” said Nan, trying to speak calmly.
“They’re falling right on those poor people— do, do look!” gasped Bess.
There was an open space between the young folks from the Mason house and the crowd that was wedged into the exit at the head of the main aisle. Upon this mob was pouring smoke and sparks. The flames ate up the bunting with which the balcony rail and pillars were decorated. The burning cloth floated down upon the heads of the excited people and threatened to set the dresses of some afire.
