A teacher on guard in the outer hall heard the confusion and entered. She called to the “mutineers” to stop, but they sang and yelled, as if it were a victory to break up the night’s entertainment.
Suddenly one of the raised paper parasols touched an open gas light. It was carried by a stranger, named Cecilia Reynolds. Seeing it blaze she frantically tossed it away, and it fell on the prompter’s chair where Dorothy still sat waiting for the trouble to be over.
Everyone screamed! Dorothy jumped up, and grasping the blazing thing, threw it out of an open window.
In her costume, of prompter, Dorothy affected the pure white robes of Clio, and in her hand she held the scroll of history. It was this open paper that caught a spark, and in stamping it out Dorothy knew the risk to her thin white dress.
Tavia and Edna, besides the teacher and Cologne, rushed to her, while the others, filled with terror at the thought of fire, fled from the room.
It all happened so quickly—Dorothy’s skirt was torn from her and that, with the piece of parchment, were soon on the ground below the open window, where the burning paper umbrella still smoldered.
“Are you burned, Dorothy?” Tavia asked, anxiously.
“Oh, no. I don’t think so, but my head—feels queer. I guess I was—frightened,” Dorothy said, haltingly.
“You must go to your room at once,” advised the teacher, who happened to be Miss Cummings. “If you keep very quiet you may not feel the shock so much. It was most unfortunate,” and she, in leading Dorothy away, motioned to her companions that they were not to follow.