Polly in New York

Eleanor whispered comically to Polly, as they stood in the entrance door: “Maybe the friends hope to postpone the acting a little longer.”

When the curtain was drawn aside and the first act of the playlet began, individuals in the audience became interested in watching their own girls in the troupe. The Chorus did very well, and the Ballet danced as gracefully as well-taught girls should, but once the actual acting began, there was a slight disappointment felt by the spectators.

The leading lady (the programme said it was Miss Elizabeth Dalken) was the whole show. She managed to keep in the lime-light even when she was not speaking, or acting a part. And so much of one actress, whether good or bad, was bound to pall on the audience.

“Polly, she’s spoiling the whole play! I wonder the other girls stood for it at the rehearsals,” whispered Eleanor.

“She didn’t act that way, before, I’m sure. Marion King told me all about it. She’s doing it now just to show off!”

“Not to her family! because not one of her folks are here. I heard her tell Estelle that her mother was going to a fashionable ball, and, of course, her father wouldn’t come because he had no invitation from Elizabeth.”

“Well,” persisted Polly, feeling sorry for the girl, “she must have uncles or aunts or cousins, here.”

“She hasn’t any in New York. Her father comes from upstate and his folks lived there. No one knows who her mother was, so she hasn’t a soul, here, but the chauffeur. He’s downstairs having refreshments.”

The second act ended and everyone sighed in relief because the play was foolish and so poorly acted, even for amateurs. Mrs. Wellington felt deeply hurt when she found how Elizabeth had chosen chums rather than actors for the principal parts in the play.

The third act began, in which Elizabeth was dressed in a spangled green ball-gown. It was very tight about the ankles and very low about the neck. It was too daring, even for a young girl acting a part. The gown had a long swishing tail at the back that could have been graceful on a vampire, but not on this posing girl.

Mrs. Wellington shook her head disapprovingly at sight of Elizabeth, and wished, more than once, that she had taken more time to review the actors and their costumes, before they appeared in public.

The Assembly Hall building where the play was given, had four stories. The first floor was used for refreshments, with a kitchen at the back. The second was a billiard parlor for the use of private clubs. The third floor was given over to the Hall, and the fourth floor was turned into dressing-rooms, card-rooms, smoking-room, et cetera.

As no late arrivals were expected after the third act had opened the ushers, placed at the doors, closed them to shut out the talking and laughing in the billiard rooms. Then they sat down at either side of the door, to watch the play.

The third act was progressing slowly, when the ushers heard sounds of confusion coming from downstairs. But they merely exchanged glances and thought some men were quarreling over a game of billiards.

Soon afterward, a faint odor and a haze of smoke penetrated through the chinks of the doors, and Polly jumped up quickly to investigate. The moment she opened a door, however, a thick cloud of smoke poured in. She had to cough, but she remembered to instantly slam the door again.

The other girls saw the smoke and a panic might have followed, had not Anne immediately jumped upon the stage and shouted:

“Remember—do not lose your heads! That is the only danger. We can all get out safely if everyone will be calm and orderly.”

Mr. Maynard took Mrs. Stewart with one arm, and caught Eleanor in his other, then called to Mr. Fabian to do the same with Anne and Polly. But there was such a dense mob at the only exit doors, that it was impossible to force a way through there, and the heavy smoke was now rapidly filling the hall.

To add to the scene of fear and confusion, the women in the assembly cried, some screamed, the girls ran back and forth, and the men were venting their fears in calling upon Deity,—some scarcely audible, and others in shrill screams of excitement.

Outside, one could hear the mingled calls and shouts of onlookers, the clanging of bells on the engines, and the yells of the people who had escaped and wanted to help their friends out. There were four front windows of the hall where the school entertainment was being given, but these were now jammed with women who sought that way to gain a breath of air, but were too timid to jump out to the street; and there were no fire-escapes to be found. The hallways and several doors opening to them, were a pitiful sight. The men, women, and children were crying, jostling, and stampeding each other in their vain efforts to get out and find the stairway in the dense smoke that kept pouring up from below.

Mr. Fabian saw the panic and realized that his friends must seek a rear exit, or remain until the tardy firemen brought the ladders up to the building to help them out. So he hurried to the door back of the stage. It had escaped the frightened eyes of others. Having learned that this door opened upon an entry that ran to a rear window, he next discovered the usual fire-escape that ran down to the yard, and up to the roof. It took him but a moment to assure himself that the escape was safe, then he rushed back.

“This way! Follow me—everyone!” he shouted to his friends.

They all hurried to the window and Mr. Fabian went first, in order to assist the ladies out to the iron-slatted platform, and then to start them, sure-footed, on the upward climb of the narrow iron steps.

Mrs. Stewart went first, but she was so nervous that Mr. Fabian followed closely behind her to steady her trembling form. Anne followed after her mother in climbing through the window, and Mr. Maynard followed her. The two girls were about to climb out on the platform when they heard a moan, and then a shrill cry, from the small dressing-room back of the stage.

Anne ordered the girls to come out, but Polly turned and ran back. Eleanor followed, and Anne, distracted, climbed back, too.

“Nolla, tie something over your mouth and nose—use your chiffon scarf,” commanded Polly, winding a wide silk sash about her own head.

The girls groped along the entry but could not distinguish a thing in the thick, choking haze. Then Polly came to the dressing-room back of the stage. This was comparatively clear from smoke, and there the girls saw Elizabeth Dalken stretched upon the floor, a cut in her forehead attesting to the cause of her sharp scream.

“Great Scott, Polly! What can we do now?” cried Eleanor, as the idea of trying to carry the girl up the steep ladder-way flashed across her mind only to be spurned. She had no idea of leaving her there to her fate, however.

“If we only had a rope!” wailed Polly.

“But we haven’t! If I only knew this house better I might find a back-stairway. Most city houses have them and I should think this place would have one.”

“Of course! Nolla, close this door to keep out smoke. I’ll look for the stairs.”

The few excited sentences were muttered through the mufflers tied over the girls’ mouths and noses. Then both girls began groping their way to the rear, hunting for the back-stairs.

The mass of people that had surged from the Hall had made for the wide front stairs, and but few remembered to seek for a back exit. And these had speedily found a way down. Polly and Eleanor also found the narrow back stairs, then Polly hastily commanded:

“Run and tell Anne—she can call to your Dad and explain. Then tell her to come this way, with us. I’ll lift Elizabeth over my shoulders and start down with her—Anne and you follow, at once!”

In another moment, Polly was back in the dressing-room while Eleanor was running for the rear window to advise Anne. But she found her already inside tying a veil over her mouth and nose.

“Nolla—where’s Polly?”

“All right—come on!”

“I told your father—they are safe on the roof—hurry now!”

Eleanor led Anne through the smoke, and just as they reached the entry, Polly staggered out of the stage-door with the unconscious girl hanging over her shoulder.

“Polly! Polly! You never can carry her!” cried Anne, in a smothered voice through the veiling.

But Polly kept her mouth closed and struggled on to the back stairs. Anne began to cough and choke as a reward for trying to speak, but she reached the stairs first and rushed on down to see if there was a safe passage below. Eleanor was close upon her heels, and Polly followed more circumspectly.

They reached the kitchen of the house without trouble but the heat as they passed by the second floor was terrific. Once down on the ground floor they found the rear of the place quite free from smoke, but it might only be because the fire overhead was blazing upward. At any moment the wall or upper floors might crash down and fall upon them.

“Nolla—how can we get out of this pen?” cried Anne.

“If the house is anything like Chicago’s, I’ll show you. There must be an area or cellar exit to the street.”

The kitchen light was still burning but it looked weird in the smoke-laden atmosphere. Eleanor tried different doors but found that they opened into passages leading to closets or to the front rooms. Finally she opened one and caught a whiff of fresh uncontaminated air.

“Thank heavens! Here it is, but I don’t know where it ends.”

Anne and she pushed out, with Polly behind them. They were in a dark alley, now, and had to trust to good fortune to come out somewhere, in safety. Down several stone steps, and along another dark, damp area they went, and then Eleanor stumbled against a closed door.

“Oh, mercy! Are we locked in here?” she yelled desperately, beating the door with her clenched fists.

“Nolla—let me feel for a handle—you are hysterical!” cried Anne, swiftly passing her hands over the rough wood.

“Hurry, hurry! I can’t carry this weight a minute longer!” breathed Polly, hoarsely.

Just at that moment, Anne’s hand struck an iron bolt. In a second she had shot it backwards, and the heavy door swung open to give them an exit to the side street.

All three girls ran frantically forward and Polly dropped her heavy burden upon a grass strip which edged the curb. Eleanor sobbed with relief and Anne fell upon her knees in silent thanksgiving.

“I’m off, girls, to see if I can help, in front. Have a care for Elizabeth,” cried Polly, and away she flew.

That silenced Eleanor’s hysteria quicker than anything else, and in another moment she was gone after her friend, leaving Anne to watch the still unconscious girl on the grass.

The scene in front of the building was one of spectacular interest. Seeing the crowds of fashionably-dressed people grouped opposite the flaring house, it would seem that everyone of the guests had escaped. But there was a deafening mixture of cries and shouts from every direction. Some were crying for lost friends, some wailed for help because of injuries inflicted by the stampede; firemen signaled their associates; the old proprietor of the Hall ran madly to and fro shouting and gesticulating wildly to everyone; in fact, it was a scene that shocked Polly to witness because she thought city people had great presence of mind.

Streams of water were pouring upon the flames that shot from the second-story windows, but the scaling ladders had not yet arrived, and the firemen were striving to enter the front door in order to carry the hose nozzle to a more effectual spot.

The Chief had sent some men through adjacent houses to reach the roofs and work downwards from that vantage spot. But they had not yet appeared when Polly saw how she could assist.

Acting upon an impulse, and doing exactly as she would do if she was witnessing a fire at Oak Creek, where the ranchers turn out and try to subdue the flames, Polly hastily dropped the clinging skirt of her evening dress. Having already removed the silk sash while in the Hall, she now dipped it in the flood of water that poured from the hydrant on the curb and tied it over her mouth and nose. Then she made a dash across the street.

She caught a coil of rope from the hook where it hung on the back of the engine, and pushed a way through the staring men. Before anyone dreamed of her plan, or the firemen could restrain her she had reached the corner of the building and was agilely climbing the height by holding to the copper leader.

A chorus of breathless gasps and frightened screams came from the crowd but Polly heard them not. She was too intent on her work. Being nimble and so light-weight, and thoroughly accustomed to climb up almost perpendicular cliffs, or along dizzy peaks, this ascent seemed like play to the mountain girl. But the onlookers were thrilled to silence as they watched her climb to the roof, and then safely crawl over the ledge. Instantly there was such a wild cheer from the street, that Polly wondered if something dreadful had happened. She never thought that the acclamation was meant for her.

Without hesitation, she ran over to a nearby chimney and wound one end of the long rope about it, then lowered the other end to the street. The Chief saw the purpose, at once, and signaling back to the girl who was leaning over the edge of the roof, he had his men tie the rope ladder to the rope. Then Polly began hoisting it slowly, until its end came over the cornice.

Meantime, when Eleanor found her friend halfway up the building, clinging to the leader and finding foothold in the crevices between the bricks, or on the steel bands that held the metal pipe to its moorings, she also ran across the street, and attempted to break through the cordon which had been formed to permit the men to hold out a life-net in case the daring climber should fall.

“I want to help Polly—she is my best friend!” cried Eleanor, when the fireman made her turn back.

Then she remembered the rear entrance from which they had escaped. She turned to the Chief and called hurriedly: “Send some men with me—I’ll show them the cellar entrance where they can reach the roof and different floors from the back!”

“Hallam! Colter! Take your equipment and follow this girl to a back door. You know what to do!”

The men detailed for this duty, beckoned a few others, and all ran after Eleanor who now made for the area door. She flew past Anne who was holding Elizabeth’s head upon her lap, but forgot to glance that way. Having gained the cellar door, she was about to go in but Hallam stopped her.

“No, Miss—we dare not permit anyone to enter a burning building, you know.”

“Oh, but I want to join Polly on the roof! The only reason I showed you this way was to get through myself!”

“I’d lose my place in the contest for prize medals, Miss, if I broke rules. You wouldn’t want me to lose my promotion?”

Eleanor felt that he had the best of the argument, so she very reluctantly turned and went back to the front of the house. There she saw that the firemen had climbed the ladder and were stationed on the roof and on window ledges, holding the hose from which the water poured in torrents upon the fire inside.

Then the multitude now gathered on both streets and the corners of the Parkway, were treated to another thrill. The strand of rope Polly had taken with her, was now used by her for descent. Down the taut rope like a trained monkey, came she, and safely jumped to the street.

Before she reached the ground however, a chorus of wild yells and hurrahs went forth from everyone in the crowd. The Chief called imperative orders to his men waiting with him, and the moment he had caught Polly, he forced his way across the street, carrying her in his arms as if she were a babe.

His men began climbing the rope ladder taking a hose with them. From the vantage-points gained by Polly’s courage, the firemen now kept steady streams of water playing through the open windows upon the fire beneath, and thus managed to subdue it before the hook-and-ladder truck wheeled up beside the building.

The men, led by Eleanor to the back-stairs, directed their efforts from that side, and soon the whole second and third floors became a bed of wet smoldering embers. The rest of the structure was saved.

It was learned, later, that the club members giving the “smoker” to friends, had been careless of butts and papers, and thus the fire must have originated.

The family living in the beautiful house opposite the fire, took Polly in charge, and kept away the mob of curious people who wished to see and talk with the heroine.

Polly was all right, and wondered why she should be kept indoors when others on the outside might need assistance. Suddenly she remembered her discarded skirt!

“Oh, mercy me! Did I climb up that pipe looking like this?” she cried, blushing furiously and burying her face in the cushions of the divan.

“My dear child! It was a wonderful sight! No one gave the slightest thought to your bloomers. But now you shall have one of Ruth’s skirts,” returned the lady of the house, fervently.

CHAPTER VII—MRS. WELLINGTON’S THANKSGIVING

“I s’pose I ought to go and hunt up my friends who escaped over the roofs,” ventured Polly.

“You’ll rest here upon this divan, or your parents will sue me!” retorted Mrs. Ashby, trying to compel, with gentle hands, obedience to her command.

Polly laughed softly. “My parents would sue you if you prevented me from doing my duty to others. Why, you-all make such a fuss over that pipe-climbing, and it is next to nothing for a Rocky Mountain girl. A day in a blizzard on the cliffs is ten times more hazardous.”

Mrs. Ashby was consumed with curiosity to ask this handsome girl who she was, and all about herself, but she controlled herself admirably, for she knew her guest ought to keep quiet.

The door-bell rang and its echo pealed through the house, but the servants were out watching the exciting events of the fire, and James had been sent for the other girls. So Mrs. Ashby opened the door.

“I just heard that Polly Brewster was here—oh! is she all right!” cried the excited voice of Mrs. Wellington.

“Right as a trivet, dear Mrs. Wellington!” called Polly springing from the couch to greet the lady.

“Oh—oh! Thank God! I’ve worried and cried over you three precious girls until my eyes are blinded! They told me that everyone was out of the place but you three!”

“Did everyone manage to escape safely?” asked Polly, anxiously.

“Everyone got out, but oh! such a panic! Some are torn, and battered black and blue, from the stampede down through those front stairs and hall. I don’t believe a single soul got out with a whole gown! They tell me it was all the fault of that ‘Pool Club’ on the second floor; they gave a ‘smoker’ to-night, and when the fire was discovered on their floor, they caused the dreadful block in the front halls.”

“Gowns are of no account if everyone escaped with life,” said Mrs. Ashby.

“But it is most unfortunate for me, just now. The story getting into the newspapers, will ruin my reputation as a school principal. Folks will ask, ‘Why did she ever choose such a place for an entertainment;’ but they will never know that I tried everywhere else, first, and found everything engaged for this week. I begged the girl who started the idea to postpone the play until the week after Thanksgiving holiday, but she stubbornly refused. So I took what I could get. I dare not tell the reporters that it was merely to please Elizabeth Dalken, and because Elizabeth’s father pays strictly in advance and has his daughter take all ‘extras.’

“You have no idea what it means to me. I am paying off the mortgages on that house where the school is located, so that I might be able to take a deep breath before I am too old to work. But this unhappy accident will ruin my reputation as a careful superintendent.”

“Elizabeth Dalken! I know her father very well, and we think he is one of the finest of men. We seldom meet Mrs. Dalken or the daughter, as we do not belong to the same set. Since Mr. Dalken separated from his wife, we have not seen her at all, but he was here and dined with us, this very evening,” said Mrs. Ashby.

“If I could only explain to him just how this happened, he might not blame me for his daughter’s injury.”

“Was she hurt?” exclaimed Mrs. Ashby. Then James came in, followed by three girls, and the adults who had escaped over the roofs.

“Here we are, Polly—safe and sound,” Mr. Maynard’s cheery voice greeted the girl who jumped up at sight of them.

Excited cries, and hugs, and happy laughs now followed as each one found the others without a hurt, Elizabeth Dalken being the only one who had received an injury, and that was merely a flesh-wound cut by the edge of the door as her head struck it.

Mrs. Ashby took charge of Elizabeth, and washed her face; then placed a strip of court plaster over the cut to keep it clean.

The fire was out and the crowd had dispersed before the firemen finished their work in and about the house. The Chief came to Mrs. Ashby’s door and asked for the young lady who was such a marvellous climber. So he was invited in to see for himself.

“Young lady, I want to make a record of this deed, as I have to report everything to the police department, you know. And I am proud to say, our records are never kept in the dark when visitors come in to see our engine house. It’s seldom we can talk about, or show a page, with such a brave act as yours, written upon it.”

Polly smiled. “But it really wasn’t anything to fuss over. It wasn’t dangerous, you know, and for anyone who can climb as well as I can, it would have been cowardly to stand by and not act. You needed a light, agile climber whose weight would not break that leader away from the wall; and I happened to be that one.”

The Chief and Mrs. Ashby exchanged glances, then laughed. “I guess it’s no use trying to make a heroine of her—she won’t have it so!” said he.

Then Eleanor spoke up. “That’s because she’s accustomed to doing such great deeds out in the mountains where she comes from—walking on the heads of rattle-snakes, killing grizzlies and lions as if they were rabbits, saving a lot of tenderfeet from blizzards and landslides—these are but a few of the little things she does out there!”

The New Yorkers gasped in astonishment; even James, the butler, stood gaping with open mouth at a real live heroine—never seen before by him except on the movie screen. So intensely interested was he, that he failed to hear his master enter by the front door, followed by a gentleman. They both burst into the room and stood amazed.

Then Mr. Ashby apologised for the abrupt entrance: “Dalken and I were at the Club when we heard of the fire so near my place. And when Dalken heard that it was Mrs. Wellington’s school-girls who were entertaining on the third floor, he came with me to see if his daughter is safe. Does anyone know where Elizabeth is?”

“Here—right here, Mr. Dalken,” Mrs. Ashby quickly assured the father. And she beckoned Mrs. Wellington to bring the girl from the alcove where she had been resting.

“My poor little girl!” quavered the father, taking the meek and broken-spirited Elizabeth in his arms. “Are you badly hurt?”

She began to cry softly against his coat collar but Mrs. Ashby reassured Mr. Dalken. “Only a scratch. Her forehead may swell a bit and be discolored for a few days, but that is all. Elizabeth owes her life to these two girls here, Mr. Dalken. One carried her out of the building after she had fainted, and the other went first and found a way down the back stairs.”

“Not really!” the amazed man gasped. “Tell me about it.”

But Polly was a poor narrator, so Anne decided to speak. She was bound that Polly should not belittle this deed as she had the climbing to the fourth floor of the burning building.

That Mr. Dalken was deeply moved, everyone could see, and when he shook hands with the two girls he said gravely, “I shall never forget how you kept me from being childless. My baby boy died three years ago to-night, and I could not have stood losing my little girl, too, on the anniversary of that sad experience.”

Elizabeth then remembered the date and hiding her face, ran back to the alcove to cry softly to herself. Mrs. Ashby and Mrs. Wellington knew the sad story, so they allowed her to weep alone. But Mr. Dalken, tender-hearted, would have gone to comfort the girl, had not Mrs. Ashby placed a detaining hand upon his arm and said: “No, dear friend—better leave her to remember and realize everything.”

Polly and Eleanor saw and heard and could not understand, but they thought it was no concern of theirs, so they forgot it.

Everyone had been introduced informally to everyone else, and at last Mrs. Ashby said: “I have had a bit of refreshment served for you, in the dining room, before you go home. After such exposures and excitement, I think we all will need something.”

Mr. Fabian wished to excuse himself, but his friends would not hear of it. Then Mr. Dalken came over and spoke to him. “Are you Mr. Fabian, the artist?”

“They say I am an artist, but I doubt it, myself,” replied Mr. Fabian, humbly, but smiling at the questioner.

“Then I am delighted to have met you, for I have a niece studying in Paris, and she writes me pages upon pages about Mrs. Fabian and the daughter Nancy, and how lovely they have been to take her about with them.”

His wife and daughter were Mr. Fabian’s pet subject so now he seemed to expand marvellously, and smiled benignly upon everyone present. On the way to the dining-room, Mr. Dalken and the artist exchanged heart-to-heart ideas and were soon fast friends.

But scarcely had they seated themselves ere another mad peal of the door-bell took James from the pleasant task of serving an impromptu supper. He was heard arguing with someone in the hall, then Mrs. Ashby turned to her husband and said: “You go and see what is the matter.”

After a short time, three re-entered the room—James, Mr. Ashby, and an ambitious-looking young man with alert bright eyes.

“Representative from the Press wants us to give him all the inside news about the fire,” explained Mr. Ashby, looking at the circle about the table.

Mrs. Wellington turned pale and gazed beseechingly at Mr. Maynard, hoping he could help her out in the inevitable story that would be written up about her school. But Mr. Dalken saw the look and comprehended immediately.

“Hello, Dunlap! How’d you get this assignment from the night-editor?”

“Oh—it’s Mr. Dalken. I’m delighted to see you, sir,” returned the reporter, very respectfully.

“Yes, these are friends of mine. Some of them are the dearest friends I have, so I do not wish them to be annoyed by finding a garbled story in the papers to-morrow morning. Consequently, I will, with the assistance of these friends, give you the facts, simple and straightforward, but see that you add nothing to them nor delete a line. Tell your boss that I said so!”

“I sure will, Mr. Dalken, and maybe I won’t be the thankful guy if you tell me the story! Can I say it came from you?” was the eager reply of the man Dunlap.

“No, sir! I am not in this at all, except as one who rushed here to help friends. Now this is the story for your paper.”

Mrs. Wellington had been anxiously whispering to Mr. Fabian, and the latter now secured Mr. Dalken’s attention. “May I have a word with you, in private, before the reporter takes down any notes?”

Out of hearing of the others, Mr. Fabian then explained that Elizabeth had stubbornly refused to postpone the entertainment, and because of her insistence, Mrs. Wellington had taken whatever hall she could find. But she did not want Elizabeth to be made to bear any of the blame, so she wants you to touch wisely on anything that has to do with the theatricals.

“I certainly appreciate Mrs. Wellington’s thoughtfulness and I will remember this. I’ll see what can be done with Dunlap.”

“Mr. Dalken is a born story-teller, Dunlap, and that is why he is so popular, I think,” remarked Mr. Ashby, just then.

“Sit down there by Fabian, Dunlap, and join our circle,” cordially invited the story-teller, after he had frowned threateningly at his host.

“Give Dunlap some coffee and don’t let him jot down a word until I’ve done talking. Then we will pick out the notes he is to have,” added Mr. Dalken.

“Oh, you can tell it so well, do let me write as you narrate?” begged the reporter.

“No, sir! I can’t read short-hand and you may get in a word I don’t want you to take. Here, James, remove the pencil and pad from that young man.”

Everyone laughed, and Dunlap meekly surrendered the articles mentioned. Directly Mr. Dalken began his story, the wily reporter had another pencil and pad before him. But Fabian stealthily took possession of these also, and the laugh went against the young man that time.

While Mr. Dalken wove a veritable thriller out of the material provided by the fire, Mrs. Wellington wondered how it was possible to present the facts so well and at the same time prove, beyond doubt, that the young ladies of Mrs. Wellington’s school were so perfectly trained and educated that they were a great factor in saving lives and property that night. At the end of the story, Mr. Dalken said that some bright investor might find a handsome revenue in building a fire-proof Hall where just such entertainments could be given—high-school girls who loved to give parties but could not lease one of the hotel ball-rooms, weeks in advance and pay exorbitant prices, and then possibly change their plans before the event.

“You can make a separate paragraph of what I said, if you like, and preface it with the remark: ‘When asked what he thought about the fire, Mr. Dalken, who viewed the blaze from a house opposite the scene, said’: you know the rest,” the famous financier saw that the reporter comprehended, and then he turned to the others seated about the table.

“Anything to add to my story?”

“It was very fine, especially about our dear Principal, but you didn’t say enough about Polly carrying Elizabeth safely out,” Eleanor said, eagerly.

“I followed a lead given me by Mr. Fabian. We all think it best not to mention names, but to make the incident impersonal,” explained Mr. Dalken.

Eleanor pouted, for she wanted to have Polly given all the credit for what she did. But a sly look from the reporter gave her an idea, and she smiled back understandingly.

Then the story was pieced out for Dunlap and when he had taken down all his notes, he jumped up and said: “I know you will excuse me for rushing away, but I want to get this in type at once. In case you have forgotten something, or wish to send me a photograph of anyone, call 10000 Greeley and I’ll see to it, without fail.”

“That’s all you’ll get on this occasion,” laughed Mr. Dalken as James started to show the young man to the door. But in passing Eleanor, Dunlap sent her a mental telegram, and she closed one eye significantly.

“Oh—he left his pencils and paper!” exclaimed Eleanor, jumping up instantly and running with them to the front door.

“Mr. Dunlap—here is your private property that Mr. Fabian had charge of,” was what the guests in the dining-room heard. But to Dunlap she hurriedly whispered: “I’ll ’phone you after I leave here.”

Before the party broke up that night, Mrs. Ashby learned that Mrs. Maynard was an old schoolmate of hers, and expressed a wish that Polly and Eleanor would visit her again and meet Ruth who was then visiting friends for Thanksgiving week.

“I really cannot voice my gratitude to all these kind friends,” said Mrs. Wellington, as they stood in the reception hall saying good-night. “Not only has dear Mr. Dalken turned harsh public condemnation from my doors, but the story as he told it, actually brings glory to the school.”

“And why should it not, my dear Madam? Have you not fought and struggled with every girl in your charge, to perfect and express just the qualities I have given you credit for?” said Mr. Dalken.

“Oh, yes, I have tried so hard, but how many people, or even parents, would credit me with such endeavors? Once they read it in the papers they will accept the statement, but it is so hard to impress folks by actual demonstration,” sighed the thankful lady.

“Thank heavens, Mrs. Wellington, that you have a whole day of peace before you, in which to remember that you have found a group of people, here, who not only appreciate your efforts but have tried to make others approve them,” said Mrs. Ashby, earnestly.

“Indeed I have! I expect to have the very best of Thanksgivings, due to all of you dear people. Some day I will be able to show my gratitude for this.” And the lady’s voice quavered with emotion.

“And you’ll find the story in the papers will not only spare you any criticism, but actually praise your school,” added Mr. Ashby.

“You may be overwhelmed with new scholars,” suggested Polly, innocently.

“That’s so! I’ve always heard that discreet publicity is the finest kind of advertising,” Eleanor declared. “This fine tale about your scholars ought to bring back fifty percent returns.”

Everyone laughed heartily at hearing so young a girl talk so business-like, and Mr. Dalken said: “I am interested to know just where you got that information?”

“Isn’t it true?” demanded Eleanor, turning her bright eyes on him. “You see, Polly and I are going into business together, pretty soon, and I have to take notice of all approved methods of winning success. I am to be the business manager while Polly is the decorator.”

The new acquaintances were highly amused at such talk, and Mr. Ashby laughingly inquired: “What profession have you chosen?”

“Interior decorators. We have started, already; we go to Cooper Union three nights a week and Mr. Fabian takes us to all the lectures and exhibitions on any subject that will give us ideas and help.”

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Dalken, finding the girls were really serious. Mrs. Ashby was deeply interested, but her husband took each of the prospective decorators by the hand and shaking them cordially, said: “Let us congratulate each other, for I am already established as a decorator. I want to help you onward in every possible way, my dear girls, so call on me whenever you want help. Just as Fabian takes you to these valuable exhibitions and lectures, so the four of us pulling together ought to arrive somewhere.”

Mr. Fabian was as pleased at the news as either of his protegées, and they left the Ashbys feeling very much at peace with the world and everything in it.

As Eleanor ran down the shallow brown-stone steps to the sidewalk, she turned back and called to Mr. Ashby: “Who knows! We may end by going into partnership with you, some day!”

He laughed, and said: “Who knows?”

CHAPTER VIII—A WEEK OF PLEASURE

She found the photograph without noise or trouble and then sat down before the telephone stand in the corner of the living room. “I hope to goodness no one upstairs will hear me talk,” thought Eleanor to herself, as she gave the number to Central.

“Hello—is this 10000 Greeley?

“Give me Mr. Dunlap, please.

“The lady who said she would call him about the fire.

“No, you won’t do! I want Dunlap!

“He isn’t in? I don’t believe you! Get off the wire!

“Hello—hello! H-e-l-lo! I want editor’s desk—10000 Greeley, and be quick about it!” snapped Eleanor, feeling quite irritable because of the loss of sleep, and the strange reporter’s laugh at her.

“Is this the night-editor?” now asked Eleanor, eagerly.

“U—um! May I speak to Mr. Dunlap—the reporter you assigned on the fire story uptown, to-night?

“Oh—he isn’t in? Well, but he said he would wait to take some important notes from me. I can’t believe he is out.

“Well, then, you may be the night-editor, but you sound exactly like that fresh reporter who spoke to me a moment ago. I cannot understand why you employ such rude youths as he is.”

Eleanor grinned to herself for she was quite sure she was speaking to the same reporter who answered the call, at first. An answering laugh convinced her she was right, and she hissed through the telephone: “If you knew who I was, you wouldn’t keep me sitting in the cold like this. Now you can either call Dunlap or I’ll give my story to your enemy downtown. The reporters of that paper are just dying to get my story.”

That proved miraculous. To prevent the downtown competitor from getting the story, the unknown was willing to turn it over to his opponent, Dunlap.

Eleanor recognised Dunlap’s voice the moment he took the ’phone, and she gave him some interesting personal facts about Polly and herself, and why they were now studying in New York. She talked for half-an-hour, praising Polly and her wonderful character, and finally began telling about the escape from Grizzly Peak at the time of the landslide. But Dunlap interrupted her with:

“I can’t get all of that in—we go to press very shortly.”

“Oh, dear! Can’t you run over here and get this photo of Polly, that I have ready for you?”

“For the morning edition?” gasped Dunlap.

“Yes, to accompany the story of the fire.”

“My dear young lady—do you know how long it takes to make a plate for the paper?”

“A plate? I said ‘a photograph,’ Mr. Dunlap.”

“But we have to make a reproduction of yours, then print it on a plate, then give it an acid bath, then etch and rout, and mount—and it all takes time before the plate is ready to be stereotyped for the printing in the paper.”

“Oh! I thought you just took the picture and copied it in the paper. Of course, I never stopped to inquire into what process it went through. But if you say you can’t use it, I’m sorry.”

“So’m I. But you might bring it in early in the morning and I’ll see if there is enough interest in the story to rake up an evening’s yarn.”

“Very well. I’ll do that.”

“Come in, anyway, and bring your friends. I’ll show you through the engraving plant of the paper. You’ll be interested.”

“Thank you—good-by.”

Eleanor hung up the receiver and listened intently to hear if anyone was stirring upstairs. All was quiet, so she placed the photograph back on the shelf and crept upstairs again. She jumped into bed shivering, after being exposed so long to the cold, downstairs. But utter weariness soon brought her sleep and all was forgotten until breakfast time.

Mr. Maynard, speaking, woke Eleanor. She sat up and rubbed her eyes sleepily. “Thank goodness, we do not have to go to school for a whole week!” declared she, throwing a shoe at Polly’s half-buried head.

“Polly! Pol-le—ee! Wake up!”

“Wha-foh?” grunted Polly, half-dazed.

Then both girls heard Mr. Maynard call: “I’ll be right back to breakfast, Mrs. Stewart—I’m going to the corner for the papers.”

Eleanor suddenly remembered her share in the telling of the story about the fire, and she jumped out of bed. “I’m going to hurry down and read what the paper says about the fire,” said she.

Polly turned over and stretched lazily. “I don’t care what they say. I’m going to sleep all day.”

Eleanor was annoyed. “No, you won’t! We’ve got to keep a date with Mr. Fabian this noon, and you’ve got to get up!”

“Oh, that’s so! Mr. Fabian is going to take us to Grand Central Palace to show us how carpets are made. I forgot that exhibition was to-day.” And Polly jumped up at that remembrance when other things had failed to move her.

The girls were downstairs in time to open the front door for Mr. Maynard. He was grinning teasingly, as he tried to keep a great mass of morning papers from slipping out from under his arm. He held out an opened sheet for the girls to see.

“Oh, what a horrid face! Who is it?” exclaimed Eleanor.

“The paper states it is you, my dear,” laughed her father.

“What—never! Oh, what awful people these newspaper men are! Dad, can’t you go down there and horse-whip them? I never looked like that in all my life!” and Eleanor stamped her foot in a fury.

Polly had been gazing at the two faces printed on the front sheet of the morning paper, but now she laughed. “Oh, if I looked like that picture, I could have put out the fire by merely turning my face to it!”

Anne and her mother came in when they heard Mr. Maynard’s loud laughter. They, too, stared at the oval-framed pictures said to be “The two heroines of the dreadful fire at Assembly Hall.”

“Anne, where under the sun did the newspapers get those two pictures?” asked Polly, tittering every time she saw the ovals.

“Every newspaper has a department known as the ‘morgue,’ or some such name. They keep, filed away, pictures of every well-known person in the world. In the package indexed under the proper name, are one or two ‘cuts’ ready to use in case of a hurry. Then when a person dies, or is married, or something or other happens, the newspaper rushes to its files and gets out the picture, or cut, needed.

“It is the same with famous buildings, or ships, or objects of any kind. If something comes up that brings the thing to the public attention, there the papers have the pictures all ready to print.

“Now they keep lots of photographs, just like these two, which they buy from cheap photographers. They buy a hundred in a job lot, and if they want a picture and can’t secure a legitimate one, or a snap-shot from the reporter’s kodak, they use what they have on hand.

“It would be extremely amusing to be present when these girls see their faces in the paper. It will prove almost as funny as seeing you two girls scorning these strange faces.”

But Mr. Maynard had been reading the article while Anne had explained the methods of many newspapers, and now he exclaimed: “By jove! Dalken never said a word about all this life-history!”

“What’s that, Daddy? Read it to us,” begged Eleanor, eagerly.

“Why—wh-y-y—the young rascal hit it right on the head, all right! But where did he get it?” continued Mr. Maynard.

“For pity’s sake—read it aloud!” commanded Eleanor, hardly able to hold her tongue about the story.

Then Mr. Maynard read it, and it lost none of its vivid coloring by his reading, either. When he had almost concluded, Polly began to grow angry. When he finished, she was furious.

“I’m going up to that office and I’ll fight that reporter. He had no more right to print that than those other men had to use someone else’s photographs and call them ours. So there!”

Mr. Maynard had been thinking seriously, and now he nailed Eleanor with a penetrating look. “Nolla, did you tell that young rascal this story when you ran to the door with his pencil and paper last night?”

“No, indeed! I did not, Daddy! You can ask the butler if I ever did! He stood right there when I handed Dunlap the pencil!”

Eleanor’s denial was so emphatic that everyone believed she was innocent of any such plot; so they never found out who was the guilty one.

While at breakfast, the telephone rang. “This is Mr. Latimer, Anne. We have just read the papers and were so surprised! When we saw the pictures of the two heroines, we feared some dreadful thing had happened to distort their faces so that we failed to recognise them, and I hastened to inquire. Do you need Dr. Evans’ services to straighten out those faces?”

An amused laugh could be heard over the wire, and Anne laughed back. “No, thanks; a good night’s rest has brought back their natural looks. The faces in the paper must have been taken by the flickering flame of the burning dwelling.”

“Jim and Ken came home late last night for the Holiday. We wanted to congratulate you girls on trying so hard for the Carnegie Medal, but now Jim wants to say ‘good-morning.’”

In another moment, Jim’s voice was heard speaking. “Oh, good-morning, Anne. Have you used Pears Soap?” Then a gay laugh.

“We have, but you haven’t! Your father just told me you got in at midnight, and if you’re up as early as this, I’m sure the sleep hasn’t been washed from your eyes,” retorted Anne.

Polly and Eleanor crowded close and hung over the ’phone so they could hear what Jim had to say.

“I only wanted to say, I’ve got tickets for the show, to-night, and the girls are not to go anywhere else.”

“Oh, tell him we’re out of town on a week-end party,” Eleanor whispered, hurriedly to Anne.

“Are the tickets good for Eleanor’s father and my mother, in case the girls go out of town?” teased Anne.

“Say—you really don’t mean that?” Jim’s voice sounded very sad.

“I cannot tell a lie—I am like George, you see, and I’ll let the girls fib for themselves,” laughed Anne, getting up from the stool and handing the instrument to Polly.

“Oh, here, Nolla! You do it! You know I don’t like this jiggery quivery thing!” cried Polly, quickly placing the telephone apparatus on the table and making room for Eleanor on the chair.

Eleanor was delighted to talk with Jim, and she kept at it until a clicking in her ear notified her that someone wanted to get them on the wire, so she hurriedly rang Jim off.

“Hello!” called Eleanor to the next inquirer.

“Hello—1234 Madison Square?”

“Yes.”

“This is Mr. Ashby speaking. Is this one of the heroines?”

“Oh, Mr. Ashby! Yes, it is Nolla. What do you think of the story in the paper—and the funny photographs?” laughed Eleanor.

“I laughed myself sick over it at breakfast. My wife and I wondered how that young rascal got them, and James explained.”

Here Eleanor turned white, for she wondered if the butler really had seen her wink at Dunlap. “My, but I’m thankful I got at this wire instead of Anne,” said she to herself.

“Two of our maids had their postal-card pictures taken the other day, and upon rushing out of the front door to watch the fire last night, they laid them upon the hall table. James saw them there, later, but thinking the girls would soon be coming in to take them upstairs, he did nothing about it.

“Then in the excitement of watching Miss Polly climb the front of the house, and have the Chief carry her over to our house, the pictures were completely forgotten. As the young reporter went out, James saw Miss Eleanor take his hat from the stand and hand it to him. But nothing was thought about the cards. Later, however, they were gone.

“This morning the papers have the photographs of Mary, the waitress, and Gladys, the upstairs girl, as heroines of the fire. Maybe our maids are not tickled to pieces to find themselves so famous.”

Eleanor heard both Mr. and Mrs. Ashby laughing merrily over the mistake, and then she said: “Do you suppose I handed the cards to Dunlap when I picked up his papers and hat?”

“Undoubtedly. But the joke is, he thinks you meant to do it very secretly, you see, so he never mentioned it but hurried the work on the pictures so as to have them in the morning’s paper. He most likely believes that that was why you ran after him—to manage to give him those two photographs to use. I think the laugh is entirely on him, don’t you, Eleanor?”

But Eleanor did not say. She sat and studied the pattern in the rug for a time, refusing to answer all the questions asked. Then she decided that Mr. Ashby must have heard from Dunlap that morning, and was told how she had added many facts to Mr. Dalken’s story. But this funny error of using the maid’s photographs, was retribution on her head.

The young people, with Anne to chaperone them, enjoyed the play that night, and then the boys outlined the programme they had made for the week.

The next day, being Thanksgiving, the entire party was to dine at the Latimers’. Then they would go for an automobile drive, and in the evening all would enjoy an impromptu supper and dance at the Evans’.

Friday morning the boys would take the girls skating at St. Nicholas Rink. They begged to attend Mr. Fabian and the girls in the afternoon at the Textile Exhibition, then dinner at the Studio, and another play at night.

Saturday morning the girls were going to visit Mr. Ashby’s famous decorating establishment, and get a glimpse first-hand of what a modern decorator must do and know to succeed. In the afternoon the boys wanted to take in a matinee, but the girls were invited to dinner at the Ashbys, and to spend the evening with their daughter Ruth. So Jim said nothing, but he instantly planned how to meet the Ashbys.

“Now don’t go and make any more dates for next week, without asking us, understand!” declared Jim, when he heard that Saturday was engaged and Sunday, partly so.

“How can we help it if our parents and chaperones do it without our knowledge,” queried Eleanor, innocently.

“Well, I’ll speak to them, then. Ken and I will have to be off again next week; so for the few days we have at home we want you girls to pass up all other fun. You’ve got all the year for other beaux, you know,” grumbled Jim.

Polly and Eleanor laughed. “Oh, yes,” said the latter, “we just keep on the go continually, every afternoon and evening, with a devoted swain each day to replace the ones of the day before.”

“Where do you meet them?” demanded Jim, jealously.

“We-ll—the first one Polly and I snared, we ‘picked up’ at an art sale. But we have many opportunities to meet others, you know.”

“Yes,” added Polly, entering the joke, “at night school, you know, there are loads of young men; and at lectures and exhibitions—and everywhere.”

“Is that why you both are so crazy to go to these dry lecture affairs?” jeered Kenneth, thinking himself very clever, indeed.

But they failed to get the girls to break the engagement with the Ashbys, and Jim barely managed, through his father’s kind auspices, to meet Mr. Dalken Saturday morning, and thus open the way to call on the Ashbys that evening.

Mr. Dalken was young in spirit if not in years, and he enjoyed helping the two boys work out the little plot so as to be present with Polly and Eleanor at the Ashbys, that evening. But the boys never knew that their benefactor passed up an exciting game of chess at his club, that Saturday night, in order to introduce them to his friends.

There were so many wonderful things to do during that Holiday Week, that the girls could not attend them all. Many of their school-friends were eager to have them at teas and parties and matinees, but all these had to be refused with regrets. Eleanor remarked: “Wait for school to open. We’ll be the most popular girls there. In fact, every last girl will want to fag for us!”

“Why?” asked Polly, wonderingly.

“Because they think we are in such demand, everywhere, that we can’t accept any invitations of theirs. Don’t you suppose they have told each other? Lots of those girls travel around together, and they talk everything over. But I guess they are wondering who takes us out so much, and what society we travel in.” Eleanor laughed.

Polly looked at her with pity. “Nolla, sometimes I feel so sorry for you! All your joy and pleasure in having others act nice or kind to you, is lost because of the education you’ve had in Bob’s school. Now I don’t believe those girls ask us just to cater to us because we are popular. I think they really like us and would love to have us with them. If I wasn’t so frightfully busy with school at night, and other worth-while occupations, I’d jaunt about with them.”

Eleanor said nothing more, but she did a lot of thinking.

CHAPTER IX—POLLY’S MUSCLE

Mr. Fabian generally conducted them home after class, and then went on to his own rooms. As it was hardly dark by seven-thirty, in October and early November, it was no more hazardous for the two girls to walk or ride down to the Square than it would be in the daytime.

But the days were becoming so much shorter after Thanksgiving, that it was quite dark by six o’clock. Hence Anne worried about their going downtown, alone, even though it was but a few blocks.

The second week of class in December, found Mr. Fabian absent. He had taken a severe cold and thought better of risking his health in the bitter wind and Scotch mist that night.

Polly and Eleanor did not speak of it to Anne, as she, too, felt wretched that day; and they would rather have stayed at home than have had her accompany them to night school in her state of health.

“You’re not to worry about us, Anne, if we do not come in as early as usual,” said Eleanor, upon opening the door to go out.

“Why—where will you be?” asked Anne, instantly.

“Exams. Some of the teachers are testing us in all the work we did this last term, and we have to write our answers. We may be a full hour later than usual; but we’ll come uptown, together, so there’s nothing to worry about,” explained Polly.

Anne thought she meant Mr. Fabian by “we-all” but Polly meant several of the students who lived a few blocks north of the Square.

Both girls were well bundled up in heavy storm coats, mufflers, and close-fitting woollen caps pulled down over their ears. Besides their books and other materials, they had umbrellas to carry but it was too windy to open them.

The examination questions proved to be most interesting; and the answers required a great deal of careful thought, before describing the various types, methods and ideals of architecture and decoration.

Polly described at large such questions as: “Can you describe the different types that go to make up the Egyptian people?” or the question: “How does plant-life affect Egyptian ornament—sketch two such plants.”

“What is a torus molding? Where is echinus molding used? Sketch the cyma recta.”

When Polly found the questions: “Describe a scarabæus,” and “Why did ancient Egyptians prepare their dead as they did, and describe a mummy and the methods used for its preservation,” she was elated, for she had made a particular study of these subjects at the Metropolitan Museum where the collection of Egyptian antiques is unsurpassed.

There were many other interesting questions, all of which Polly was eager to answer, but time was too limited for her to say all she wished to. For instance, she wanted to describe, at length, Greek art and the Greek nation that was characteristic for its own type of art and ornament.

She was anxious to tell what she knew about color and its importance in art. Of polychromy and what it was. In fact, she needed hours in which to speak fully of the difference between Greek, Egyptian and Assyrian art and ornament.

Eleanor on her part, wrote graphically of the difference between the Arabs and Persians, and how their modes and habits had a corresponding effect on art. She liked to describe the style of Romanesque art and how it governed all Eastern Europe at one time.

Eleanor leaned to the Moorish classics and had a weakness for Turkish designs; she loved the warm coloring used by the Moors in their work, and the harsh bright colors employed by the Turks. She had no hesitation in selecting from samples shown, the Mohammedan designs, the Chinese, the Byzantine, or Arabian patterns. She was expert in stating why the fall of Rome affected all art in Eastern and Western Europe, and what was its highest development and its period of all architecture.

It was more than an hour later than usual, when the two girls put away their work and started out for home. The scholars who lived on streets uptown, had gone long before, and Polly and Eleanor found that the high wind made it impossible for them to open their umbrellas.

“It’s so icy we will have to use them as props,” laughed Polly.

“My! But this sleet in one’s face is cold, isn’t it?” gasped Eleanor.

“Let’s take a short cut across the Plaza,” suggested Polly, breaking into a run across the diamond that separates the streets at Third and Fourth avenues, and Eighth street.

Having reached the small oasis about the subway station, Eleanor said: “Why not take the subway, here, to Twenty-eighth street, Poll?”

“Oh, I hate those subways! This wonderful sleet and the quiet hissing of the ice on the windows and walks makes me feel as if I were home. No clatter of wheels, no shouting of burly men, no nothing that makes a city so horrid. Let’s walk all the way home.”

“All right,” laughed Eleanor. “I’m game!”

So they started up Fourth avenue, past Wanamakers, and were soon lost to their surroundings in their discussion of the examinations.

“What answer did you give to the question ‘Tell the basis of religions existing with the Persians and the Arabs: describe the differences,’ Polly?”

“I was not quite sure of that, Nolla, but I did make a good thing of that question ‘Why did Egyptians use bright colors in art?’ And also that question that read: ‘When colors of the pattern contrast with the colors of the back-ground, what general rule must govern?’ You know, I just love to ferret out these ideas.”

“So do I. But I never dreamed there was so much wonderful knowledge to be obtained in a course of this kind,” said Eleanor, holding her arm before her face in order to speak distinctly.

They had now reached Eleventh street, and were passing a saloon still brightly lighted, in spite of Prohibition Laws. In the doorway lounged three tough-looking young men; but the red-cheeked girls scarcely saw them—they were too interested in their conversation. An empty auto stood by the curb, but no other vehicle or person was in sight.

When the girls came under the arc of light that reflected from the globes in the saloon-window, one of the flippant young men said, quite loud enough for Polly and Eleanor to hear: “I say! Ain’t them two goils peaches, though!”

His two companions laughed rudely, but the girls hastened on without a word or look. Another of the trio then said: “Betcha they’d be glad of comp’ny. I’ll try it.”

Eleanor whispered anxiously to Polly: “What time do you think it is?”

“It was almost eleven when we stopped writing. It must be nearly eleven-thirty now.”

“Pretty late for such a bad night. We’ll take the subway at Fourteenth street, Polly.”

“Reckon we’d better. Are there no policemen about these corners?”

“Not when you need one. On fine summer nights you will see them strolling about, maybe.”

The girls tittered, but instantly hushed when they heard voices directly behind them.

“Pretty evenin’ fer a walk, goils.”

No reply was vouchsafed to this remark but the girls kept right on with their customary swift gait.

“Ain’t che hankerin’ fer comp’ny?” chuckled another tough.

“Ah, come on back, fellers. What’s th’ use foolin’ wid a coupla high-brows on such a nasty night!” argued one of the three.

Polly and Eleanor fervently hoped they would go back, but the other fellow replied: “G’wan back, if yeh wants. Bill and me er goin’ to have some fun. Come on, Bill.”