“Miss Fuller wants to see the young fellow who put out the fire,” he announced.
“That’s you, Andy!” cried his chums.
“Aw, I’m not going back there.”
“Yes, she would like to see you. She wants to thank you,” put in the stage manager. “Come along.”
Rather bashfully Andy went back. He found the singer—a mere girl—propped up on a couch. Her arms and hands were in bandages, but she did not seem to have been much burned.
“I’m sorry I can’t shake hands with you,” she said, with a smile. She was pale, for the “make-up” had been washed from her face.
“Oh, that’s all right,” responded Andy, a bit embarrassed.
“It was awfully good and brave of you,” she went on, with a catch in her voice. “I don’t—I don’t know how to thank you. I—I just couldn’t seem to do anything for myself. It was—awful,” and her voice broke.
“Oh, it might have been worse,” spoke Andy, and he knew that it wasn’t just the thing to say. But, for the life of him, he could not fit proper words together. “I’m glad you’re all right, Miss Fuller,” he said. He had seen her name on the bills—Mazie Fuller. He wondered whether it was her right one, or a stage cognomen. At any rate, he decided from a casual glance, she was very pretty.
“You must give me your address,” the girl went on. “I want to pay for the coat you spoiled on my account.”