He could see tiny tongues of flame where his coat did not quite reach, and with swift, quick pats of his bare hands he beat them out, burning himself slightly. He took good care not to let the flames shoot up, so that the frantic girl would inhale them. That meant death, and her escape had been narrow enough as it was.
As Andy held the coat closely about her he glanced over toward the box whence the match had come. He saw the horror-stricken young men looking at him and the girl in fascination, but they had not been quick to act. After all, it was an accident and the fault of no one in particular.
The stage was now occupied by several other performers, and the frantic manager. But it was all over. Andy patted out the last of the smouldering sparks. The girl was swaying and he looked up in time to see that she was going to faint.
“Look out!” he cried, and caught her in his arms.
“Back this way! Carry her back here!” ordered the manager, motioning to the wings. “Keep that music going!” he added to the orchestra leader.
They carried the unfortunate little singer to a dressing room, and a doctor was summoned. One of the stage hands brought Andy’s coat to him. The garment was seared and scorched, and rank with the odor of smoke.
“If you don’t want to wear it I’ll see Mr. Wallack, and get another for you,” offered the man.
“Oh, this isn’t so bad,” said Andy, slipping it on. “It’s an old one, anyhow.”
He looked curiously about him. It was the first time he had been behind the scenes, though there was not as much to observe in this little theatre as in a larger one. Beyond the dropped curtain he could hear the strains of the music and the murmur in the audience. The show had come to a sudden ending, and many were departing.
As Andy was leaving, to go back to his chums, the doctor came in hastily, and hurried to the room of the performer.