CHAPTER III
JILL AND THE UNKNOWN ESCAPE
I
In these days when the authorities who watch over the welfare of thecommunity have taken the trouble to reiterate encouragingly in printednotices that a full house can be emptied in three minutes and that allan audience has to do in an emergency is to walk, not run, to thenearest exit, fire in the theatre has lost a good deal of its old-timeterror. Yet it would be paltering with the truth to say that theaudience which had assembled to witness the opening performance of thenew play at the Leicester was entirely at its ease. The asbestoscurtain was already on its way down, which should have beenreassuring: but then asbestos curtains never look the part. To the layeye they seem just the sort of thing that will blaze quickest.Moreover, it had not yet occurred to the man at the switchboard toturn up the house-lights, and the darkness was disconcerting.
Portions of the house were taking the thing better than otherportions. Up in the gallery a vast activity was going on. The clatterof feet almost drowned the shouting. A moment before it would haveseemed incredible that anything could have made the occupants of thegallery animated, but the instinct of self-preservation had put newlife into them.
The stalls had not yet entirely lost their self-control. Alarm was inthe air, but for the moment they hung on the razor-edge between panicand dignity. Panic urged them to do something sudden and energetic;dignity counselled them to wait. They, like the occupants of thegallery, greatly desired to be outside, but it was bad form to rushand jostle. The men were assisting the women in their cloaks, assuringthem the while that it was "all right" and that they must not befrightened. But another curl of smoke had crept out just before theasbestos curtain completed its descent, and their words lacked thering of conviction. The movement towards the exits had not yet becomea stampede, but already those with seats nearest the stage had begunto feel that the more fortunate individuals near the doors wereinfernally slow in removing themselves.
Suddenly, as if by mutual inspiration, the composure of the stallsbegan to slip. Looking from above, one could have seen a sort ofshudder run through the crowd. It was the effect of every member ofthat crowd starting to move a little more quickly.
A hand grasped Jill's arm. It was a comforting hand, the hand of a manwho had not lost his head. A pleasant voice backed up its message ofreassurance.
"It's no good getting into that mob. You might get hurt. There's nodanger; the play isn't going on."
Jill was shaken; but she had the fighting spirit and hated to showthat she was shaken. Panic was knocking at the door of her soul, butdignity refused to be dislodged.
"All the same," she said, smiling a difficult smile, "it would be niceto get out, wouldn't it?"
"I was just going to suggest something of that very sort," said theman beside her. "The same thought occurred to me. We can stroll outquite comfortably by our own private route. Come along."
Jill looked over her shoulder. Derek and Lady Underhill were mergedinto the mass of refugees. She could not see them. For an instant alittle spasm of pique stung her at the thought that Derek had desertedher. She groped her way after her companion, and presently they cameby way of a lower box to the iron pass-door leading to the stage.
As it opened, smoke blew through, and the smell of burning wasformidable. Jill recoiled involuntarily.
"It's all right," said her companion. "It smells worse than it reallyis. And, anyway, this is the quickest way out."
They passed through on to the stage, and found themselves in a worldof noise and confusion compared with which the auditorium which theyhad left had been a peaceful place. Smoke was everywhere. Astage-hand, carrying a bucket, lurched past them, bellowing. Fromsomewhere out of sight on the other side of the stage there came asound of chopping. Jill's companion moved quickly to the switchboard,groped, found a handle, and turned it. In the narrow space between thecorner of the proscenium and the edge of the asbestos curtain lightsflashed up: and simultaneously there came a sudden diminution of thenoise from the body of the house. The stalls, snatched from theintimidating spell of the darkness and able to see each other's faces,discovered that they had been behaving indecorously and checked theirstruggling, a little ashamed of themselves. The relief would be onlymomentary, but, while it lasted, it postponed panic.
"Go straight across the stage," Jill heard her companion say, "outalong the passage and turn to the right, and you'll be at thestage-door. I think, as there seems no one else around to do it, I'dbetter go out and say a few soothing words to the customers. Otherwisethey'll be biting holes in each other."
He squeezed through the narrow opening in front of the curtain.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
Jill remained where she was, leaning with one hand against theswitchboard. She made no attempt to follow the directions he had givenher. She was aware of a sense of comradeship, of being with this manin this adventure. If he stayed, she must stay. To go now through thesafety of the stage-door would be abominable desertion. She listened,and found that she could hear plainly in spite of the noise. The smokewas worse than ever, and hurt her eyes, so that the figures of thetheatre-firemen, hurrying to and fro, seemed like Brocken spectres.She slipped a corner of her cloak across her mouth, and was able tobreathe more easily.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that there is absolutely nodanger. I am a stranger to you, so there is no reason why you shouldtake my word, but fortunately I can give you solid proof. If therewere any danger, _I_ wouldn't be here. All that has happened is thatthe warmth of your reception of the play has set a piece of sceneryalight...."
A crimson-faced stage-hand, carrying an axe in blackened hands, roaredin Jill's ear.
"'Op it!" shouted the stage-hand. He cast his axe down with a clatter."Can't you see the place is afire?"
"But--but I'm waiting for...." Jill pointed to where her ally wasstill addressing an audience that seemed reluctant to stop and listento him.
The stage-hand squinted out round the edge of the curtain.
"If he's a friend of yours, miss, kindly get 'im to cheese it and geta move on. We're clearing out. There's nothing we can do. It's got toomuch of an 'old. In about another two ticks the roof's going to dropon us."
Jill's friend came squeezing back through the opening.
"Hullo! Still here?" He blinked approvingly at her through the smoke."You're a little soldier! Well, Augustus, what's on your mind?"
The simple question seemed to take the stage-hand aback.
"Wot's on my mind? I'll tell you wot's on my blinking mind...."
"Don't tell me. Let me guess. I've got it! The place is on fire!"
The stage-hand expectorated disgustedly. Flippancy at such a momentoffended his sensibilities.
"We're 'opping it," he said.
"Great minds think alike! _We_ are hopping it, too."
"You'd better! And damn quick!"
"And, as you suggest, damn quick. You think of everything!"
Jill followed him across the stage. Her heart was beating violently.There was not only smoke now, but heat. Across the stage littlescarlet flames were shooting, and something large and hard, unseenthrough the smoke, fell with a crash. The air was heavy with the smellof burning paint.
"Where's Sir Chester Portwood?" enquired her companion of thestage-hand, who hurried beside them.
"'Opped it!" replied the other briefly, and coughed raspingly as heswallowed smoke.
"Strange," said the man in Jill's ear, as he pulled her along. "Thisway. Stick to me. Strange how the drama anticipates life! At the endof Act Two there was a scene where Sir Chester had to creep sombrelyout into the night, and now he's gone and done it! Ah!"
They had stumbled through a doorway and were out in a narrow passage,where the air, though tainted, was comparatively fresh. Jill drew adeep breath. Her companion turned to the stage-hand and felt in hispocket.
"Here." A coin changed hands. "Go and get a drink. You need it afterall this."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it. You've saved our lives. Suppose you hadn't come upand told us, and we had never noticed there was a fire!" He turned toJill. "Here's the stage-door. Shall we creep sombrely out into thenight?"
The guardian of the stage-door was standing in the entrance of hislittle hutch, plainly perplexed. He was a slow thinker and a man whoselife was ruled by routine, and the events of the evening had left himuncertain how to act.
"Wot's all this about a fire?" he demanded.
Jill's friend stopped.
"A fire?" He looked at Jill. "Did _you_ hear anything about a fire?"
"They all come bustin' past 'ere yelling there's a fire," persistedthe door-man.
"By George! Now I come to think of it, you're perfectly right! There_is_ a fire! If you wait here a little longer you'll get it in thesmall of the back. Take the advice of an old friend who means you welland vanish. In the inspired words of the lad we've just parted from,'op it!"
The stage-door man turned this over in his mind for a space.
"But I'm supposed to stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock up!" hesaid. "That's what I'm supposed to do. Stay 'ere till eleven-thirtyand lock up! And it ain't but ten forty-five now."
"I see the difficulty," said Jill's companion thoughtfully.
"Well, Casabianca, I'm afraid I don't see how to help you. It's amatter for your own conscience. I don't want to lure you from theburning deck; on the other hand, if you stick on here you'll mostcertainly be fired on both sides.... But, tell me. You spoke aboutlocking up something at eleven-thirty. What are you supposed to lockup?"
"Why, the theatre."
"Then that's all right. By eleven-thirty there won't _be_ a theatre.If I were you, I should leave quietly and unostentatiously now.To-morrow, if you wish it, and if they've cooled off sufficiently, youcan come and sit on the ruins. Good night!"
II
Outside, the air was cold and crisp. Jill drew her warm cloak closer.Round the corner there was noise and shouting. Fire-engines hadarrived. Jill's companion lit a cigarette.
"Do you wish to stop and see the conflagration?" he asked.
Jill shivered. She was more shaken than she had realized.
"I've seen all the conflagration I want."
"Same here. Well, it's been an exciting evening. Started slow, Iadmit, but warmed up later! What I seem to need at the moment is arestorative stroll along the Embankment. Do you know, Sir ChesterPortwood didn't like the title of my play. He said 'Tried by Fire' wastoo melodramatic. Well, he can't say now it wasn't appropriate."
They made their way towards the river, avoiding the street which wasblocked by the crowds and the fire-engines. As they crossed theStrand, the man looked back. A red glow was in the sky.
"A great blaze!" he said. "What you might call--in fact what thepapers _will_ call--a holocaust. Quite a treat for the populace."
"Do you think they will be able to put it out?"
"Not a chance. It's got too much of a hold. It's a pity you hadn'tthat garden-hose of yours with you, isn't it?"
Jill stopped, wide-eyed.
"Garden-hose?"
"Don't you remember the garden-hose? I do! I can feel that clammyfeeling of the water trickling down my back now!"
Memory, always a laggard by the wayside that redeems itself by aneleventh-hour rush, raced back to Jill. The Embankment turned to asun-lit garden, and the January night to a July day. She stared athim. He was looking at her with a whimsical smile. It was a smilewhich, pleasant to-day, had seemed mocking and hostile on thatafternoon years ago. She had always felt then that he was laughing ather, and at the age of twelve she had resented laughter at herexpense.
"You surely can't be Wally Mason!" "I was wondering when you wouldremember." "But the programme called you something else--Johnsomething."
"That was a cunning disguise. Wally Mason is the only genuine andofficial name. And, by Jove! I've just remembered yours. It wasMariner. By the way,"--he paused for an almost imperceptibleinstant--"is it still?"
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