Overstepping the first step of the next flight, she fell bumpety-bumpety-bump all the way to the bottom, like the garbage cans in Green Cap Week. When she was smaller she had got spankings for playing on the stairs and bumping from top to bottom very much like her present sitting down manner.
The instant she touched the first floor, she fled to the office. No time to count bruises now.
As she feared, the office was locked. There was only one thing to do and Mimi did it. She had to get to the telephone. She could not waste time fumbling in the semi-darkness for a hatchet or club. Doubling up her first as hard as she could, she swung with all her might and main and smashed the glass window. The sound of shattering glass should have awakened every sleeper but it only echoed dully through the deserted first floor.
Disregarding her smarting and stinging hand she clutched the telephone.
She did not know the number of the fire department!
She knew the fire drill formation perfectly. She could have gone out of the building from the study hall or from Tumble Inn blindfolded. She had enjoyed the fire drills all year. They broke into the dreary routine. Knowing how important they were, she had heeded and learned, every instruction; but here was something the instructor had overlooked—the fire station telephone number.
Mimi was only stumped for a second, however. She had had other and fuller instructions on what to do in case of fire. She dialed the operator, and, with great effort, kept her voice clear so there could be no misunderstanding.
“Operator, operator,” Mimi said. She must keep cool and say distinctly where the fire was, instead of merely yelling “Fire, Fire” as most people did when the operator answered.
“Please report a fire. Sheridan School. Prep Hall.”
“Fire—Sheridan School—Prep Hall—” the operator repeated tersely. The drowsiness left her voice on the first word.