“I am a fool,” I thought; “and James Whitcomb Riley was right when he said that the speaker who is about to make his bow to an audience is always so keyed up that at the moment he is incapable of sane thinking.”
I excused myself and walked over to an open window at the back of the stage and looked down.
It must have been forty feet to the stony street beneath.
Then I went to a side window and threw up the sash. This window looked out on a roof ten or twelve feet below. I got a broken broom that stood in the corner and propped the window open.
The thought of fire was upon me and I was inwardly planning what I would do in case of a stampede. I am always thinking about what I would do should this or that happen. Nothing can surprise me—not even death. If any of my best helpers should leave me, I have it all planned exactly whom I will put in their places. I have it arranged who will take my own place—my will is made and my body is to be cremated.
“Cremated? Not tonight!” I said to myself, as I placed the broom under the sash. “If a panic occurs, the people will go out of the doors and I will stick to the stage until my coat-tails singe. I’ll say that the fire is in an adjoining building; then I’ll smilingly bow myself off the stage and gently drop out of that window.”
“All ready when you are,” said Mr. Fass.
I passed out on the stage before that vast sea of faces.
It was a glorious sight. There was a row of military men from the French warship in the harbor, down in front; priests, and ladies with sparkling diamonds; a bishop wearing a purple vestment under his black gown sat to one side; a stout lady in decollete waved a feather fan in rhythmic, mystic motion, far back to the left.
The audience applauded encouragingly, I wished I was back in that dear East Aurora. But I began.