But Clifford Standish could not be brought to relent.
"She can get another place," he said, carelessly. "The manager can't afford to displease me. I'm drawing full houses every night. So out goes prudish Bettie, and in comes pretty Geraldine!"
"You don't think you can kiss her in a dark corridor, do you?"
"I shall kiss her when I please. In fact, I intend to marry the little beauty; so no attentions in that quarter, my friend."
"All right. I'll keep off the grass," returned the young actor, slangily, and turning to his friend, Charlie Butler, they went away together, leaving Standish to some bitter reflections, for his bravado was all put on. He feared that Geraldine was lost to him forever.
"He will be with her this evening, that villainous fireman, while I am plodding away on the stage," he thought, angrily.
But a most untoward fate helped him on when he feared that the game was lost to him forever—helped him on, and blighted all the springing hopes of poor Harry Hawthorne.
A morbid curiosity over his rival led him to stroll down on Ludlow street that afternoon, in the neighborhood of the engine-house, and he saw the horses dashing out attached to the engine, and the hated Hawthorne on the driver's seat, handling the reins with consummate skill, his handsome face aglow with excitement. An alarm of fire had come in, and he was hastening to the scene.
Clifford Standish hated his manly rival more than ever at this moment, but he impulsively joined the crowd that was running after the engine, intent on seeing the fire.
On went the engine in splendid style, the horses obeying Hawthorne's hand lovingly, their sleek sides shining, their manes streaming, their fine heads erect, their large eyes flashing, a sight to win the admiration of every gazer. Flying like the wind, their hoofs striking fire from the pavement, they turned the corner, and—— Alas! what was that shriek that went up from hundreds of throats?