“No; but you see the windows are open, and there are bonfires outside,
I suppose.”

“I am a fool,” I thought; “and James Whitcomb Riley was right when he
said that the speaker who is about to make his bow to an audience is
always so keyed up that at the moment he is incapable of sane
thinking.”

I excused myself and walked over to an open window at the back of the
stage and looked down.

It must have been forty feet to the stony street beneath.

Then I went to a side window and threw up the sash. This window looked
out on a roof ten or twelve feet below. I got a broken broom that
stood in the corner and propped the window open.

The thought of fire was upon me and I was inwardly planning what I
would do in case of a stampede. I am always thinking about what I
would do should this or that happen. Nothing can surprise me—not even
death. If any of my best helpers should leave me, I have it all
planned exactly whom I will put in their places. I have it arranged
who will take my own place—my will is made and my body is to be
cremated.

“Cremated? Not tonight!” I said to myself, as I placed the broom under
the sash. “If a panic occurs, the people will go out of the doors and
I will stick to the stage until my coat-tails singe. I’ll say that the
fire is in an adjoining building; then I’ll smilingly bow myself off
the stage and gently drop out of that window.”