Polly in New York

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

As Mr. Maynard occupied Eleanor’s room at the Studio, and she used the couch moved into Polly’s room for the time being, it seemed difficult for Eleanor to follow her desire to communicate with Dunlap, the reporter, as soon as she got home.

Everyone was dog-tired from the excitement and the visit at the Ashbys afterward, so there was no time lost before tumbling into bed. Eleanor found it very hard to keep her eyes open until she could hear Polly sleeping heavily. Then she crept from the bed.

Downstairs was the print of a photograph taken a few weeks before, of a group of Mrs. Wellington’s scholars. Polly and herself were in this group, and Eleanor planned to get it into the reporter’s hands for reproduction to print a picture of Polly in the morning’s paper.

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.