In the Oven

“I am inclined to think that a girl’s wit is quicker than a man’s in a tight place, if the place is tight enough.” Mr. Colchester had spoken after we had been silently sitting for several minutes watching the mist that was creeping over the moonlit water and listening to the chirp of the crickets in the grass. He always began a story by stating the moral. His way was to present some conclusion and then prove it by a personal experience. “I was thinking of my sister,” he explained. “She once saved us both from a fearful death. If it had not been for her ready wit I should have been a biscuit!” At this every one straightened up perceptibly. Mr. Colchester’s stories were always interesting. “Perhaps all of you do not know that my father was a cracker manufacturer,” he continued, “and that he had a shop with machinery and three ovens in it. Of course that would be considered nothing to-day, when there are bakeries that supply thousands of people in every part of the country, but when I was a boy I remember I used to wonder that there were enough mouths to consume all that my father’s workmen made. “I often went down to the shop, for it was really fascinating to watch the mixers turning the great rolls of dough over and over, and see the cutting-machines chopping a long strap of it into little sticky lumps. Then old Carberry, the baker, would toss the pieces which had been patted and molded by hand on the tiled floor of the oven. Sometimes my sister Margaret used to go with me, for we were great chums, and it was on one of those occasions that we got into trouble. “The day, I remember, had been rainy, and after a discouraging attempt to amuse ourselves in the house, Margaret said, ‘Let’s take umbrellas and go down to the bakery.’ “I was so glad of the suggestion that I forgot it was the noon hour, when the men would be gone and the machinery shut down. It wasn’t until we saw the deserted room that we remembered it. “‘Well,’ said I, ‘we are bright, aren’t we? But let’s look round—I’ll tell you, let’s look at the cool oven.’ “‘Cool oven!’ exclaimed Margaret, in surprise. “I explained to her that in the ordinary course of business only two ovens were used, and that unless there were extra orders there was always one oven which was out of commission, being shut off from the furnaces below by the big sheet-iron dampers. “I raised the latch of the heavy door and bent down to look across the flat, tiled surface inside. “‘It’s just like a cave, isn’t it, Bob?’ cried my sister; and I laughed at the idea and asked her whether she expected to see a bear or a robber walk out. “‘Of course I don’t!’ she said, for she always was on her guard against my making fun of her. ‘Let’s crawl in.’ “‘All right,’ said I, touching the brick walls to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake; and then I followed her inside through the gloomy opening. “‘Will it get my dress dirty?’ Margaret asked, out of the darkness. “‘No, indeed,’ said I. ‘They have to keep these ovens clean as can be. They’re fussy about every speck of dust.’ “I had hardly finished when the iron door behind us shut with a resounding clang. One of the workmen who had come back to work had closed it! “‘O Bob,’ cried my sister, with a little scream of fright, ‘we’re shut in!’ “‘Like two biscuits,’ I laughed. ‘Don’t you mind. All we have to do is to shout and some one will come.’ “But Margaret was really scared, and groped her way near me to put her hand on my shoulder. I confess the darkness and the close, stuffy air were far from cheerful. “I began to call as loud as I could, and not getting any answer, I crept over to the solid iron door and began kicking it with my heels. After a moment I stopped, breathing hard from my exercise, and then I heard Margaret’s voice behind me, saying: “‘Wait a minute, Bob! Listen!’ “I strained my ears, and from the outside I could hear a rumbling that seemed to come from far, far away. “‘It’s the machinery!’ I cried. ‘It’s after one o’clock, and they have begun work again. No wonder they couldn’t hear us!’ “By that time I had become really frightened, and I suppose I must have temporarily lost my head. I shouted wildly until my throat was sore, but it seemed only to fill our oven trap with noise. There was no hope whatever that it would penetrate the thick brick walls. Suddenly I was startled into silence by a sound of scraping iron underneath us—a familiar noise to my ears. Some one had pulled open the great damper that shut us off from the fires in the cellar below! They were going to heat our oven! “‘What was that?’ exclaimed my sister, touching my hand with her cold fingers. ‘What did that noise mean, Bob?’ She seemed to know our danger by instinct. I did not answer, for with a sinking heart I felt on my face the first breath of warm air! “‘Tell me, Bob!’ demanded Margaret. ‘They are heating this oven, aren’t they?’ She had caught my wrist and pressed it as hard as a girl could squeeze. “‘Yes!’ I gasped, trying to speak bravely. I remember I felt that if I were alone I should not care nearly so much, but the idea that my little sister would have to die, too, put me into another panic. “A second breath of air a good deal hotter than the first fanned my cheek. I jumped up with a scream, and beat and kicked upon the rough brick walls and on the iron door in blind terror. Then, exhausted, I crawled along the floor to the place where Margaret sat. She was crying quietly—I could tell because when I put my arm about her I could feel that she was shaking. “‘They will never, never hear us!’ she sobbed. “‘Don’t cry, Margy,’ said I, patting her wet cheek while I tried to arouse my own courage. ‘Perhaps there is another way.’ “I tried to think, but the heat had then become almost unbearable; it stung my nose and seemed to suffocate me. Once when I touched a place on one of the tiles I drew my hand back in real pain. There was no hope of breaking the latch of the iron door, and no one could hear us, though we put our mouths to a little crack at the top of the door and screamed. I was sure we would be baked. My arm was still round my sister, and her hand was still in mine, as if she were seeking the comfort of the touch. “It was becoming hotter and hotter, but neither of us spoke for several seconds. Then suddenly Margaret started up and cried out, eagerly, ‘Tell me, Bob, quick! Have you got a piece of paper?’ “I felt in my pockets. ‘Yes, I have an old postal card!’ I exclaimed. ‘What are you going to do with it?’ “‘They can’t hear us, but we can make them see!’ she cried. ‘Hurry! Give it to me—and your jack-knife!’ “I handed them to her, and she began to pick at the hem of her skirt with the point of the knife. “‘We need thread,’ she explained, excitedly, ‘and if this is a chain-stitch on this hem we can get it!’ I lighted a match. ‘And it is, Bob, it is!’ she cried. I realized that she had caught an end of thread and was carefully ripping it out. “‘Now, Bob,’ she commanded, handing me the card, ‘punch a hole in the card and tie it through.’ Her voice was weak. From my own struggle to keep my senses in the awful heat, I knew that she was nearly at the collapsing point. “‘What are you going to do with it?’ I gasped. “‘The door!’ she answered, faintly. ‘Dangle the card through the crack in the door!’ Then I understood her plan at last, and crawling painfully over on my knees, I thrust the postal card down the little crack between the door and the iron jamb. “‘Pull it up and let it down!’ cried Margaret, with a final effort, and I jiggled the string so that the paper would dance upon the wall outside. My head swam with the effect of the terrible heat, and it seemed ages before any one came. “Then suddenly the latch was lifted, the door swung open, and in spite of the blinding daylight which poured in I could see the astonished face of old Carberry, the baker, peering in at us! “I caught my sister’s dress, pulling her toward the opening with all the strength that was left in me, and fell out after her into the old man’s arms. “That is why I say,” concluded Mr. Colchester, as he looked round upon us with a smile, “that it was a girl’s wit that kept me from being baked like a biscuit. And that is the reason why I say that a girl’s wit is the best in a tight place—providing the place is tight enough.”