He squeezed through the narrow opening in front of the curtain.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
Jill remained where she was, leaning with one hand against the switchboard. She made no attempt to follow the directions he had given her. She was aware of a sense of comradeship, of being with this man in this adventure. If he stayed, she must stay. To go now through the safety of the stage-door would be abominable desertion. She listened, and found that she could hear plainly in spite of the noise. The smoke was worse than ever, and hurt her eyes, so that the figures of the theatre-firemen, hurrying to and fro, seemed like Brocken specters. She slipped a corner of her cloak across her mouth, and was able to breathe more easily.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that there is absolutely no danger. I am a stranger to you, so there is no reason why you should take my word, but fortunately I can give you solid proof. If there were any danger, I wouldn't be here. All that has happened is that the warmth of your reception of the play has set a piece of scenery alight. …"
A crimson-faced stage-hand, carrying an axe in blackened hands, roared in Jill's ear.
"Gerroutofit!"
Jill looked at him, puzzled.
"'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 was still addressing an audience that seemed reluctant to stop and listen to 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 get a move on. We're clearing out. There's nothing we can do. It's got too much of an 'old. In about another two ticks the roof's going to drop on 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 moment offended 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 little scarlet flames were shooting, and something large and hard, unseen through the smoke, fell with a crash. The air was heavy with the smell of burning paint.
"Where's Sir Portwood Chester?" enquired her companion of the stage-hand, who hurried beside them.
"'Opped it!" replied the other briefly, and coughed raspingly as he swallowed smoke.
"Strange," said the man in Jill's ear, as he pulled her along. "This way. Stick to me. Strange how the drama anticipates life! At the end of act two there was a scene where Sir Chester had to creep sombrely out 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 a deep breath. Her companion turned to the stage-hand and felt in his pocket.
"Here, Rollo!" A coin changed hands. "Go and get a drink. You need it after all this."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it. You've saved our lives. Suppose you hadn't come up and told us, and we had never noticed there was a fire! Charred bones, believed to be those of a man and a woman, were found in the ruined edifice!"
He turned to Jill. "Here's the stage-door. Shall we creep sombrely out into the night?"
The guardian of the stage-door was standing in the entrance of his little hutch, plainly perplexed. He was a slow thinker and a man whose life was ruled by routine: and the events of the evening had left him uncertain 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," persisted the 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 the small of the back. Take the advice of an old friend who means you well and 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!" he said. "That's what I'm supposed to do. Stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock up! And it ain't but ten-forty-five now."
"I see the difficulty," said Jill's companion thoughtfully. "It's what you might call an impasse. French! Well, Casabianca, I'm afraid I don't see how to help you. It's a matter for your own conscience. I don't want to lure you from the burning deck: on the other hand, if you stick on here, you'll most certainly be fried on both sides … But, tell me. You spoke about locking up something at eleven-thirty. What are you supposed to lock up?"
"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. Tomorrow, if you wish it, and if they've cooled off sufficiently, you can come and sit on the ruins. Good night!"
2.
Outside, the air was cold and crisp. Jill drew her warm cloak closer. Round the corner there was noise and shouting. Fire-engines had arrived. 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, I admit, but warmed up later! What I seem to need at the moment is a restorative stroll along the Embankment. Do you know, Sir Portwood Chester didn't like the title of my play. He said 'Tried by Fire' was too melodramatic. Well, he can't say now it wasn't appropriate."
They made their way towards the river, avoiding the street which was blocked by the crowds and the fire-engines. As they crossed the Strand, the man looked back. A red glow was in the sky.
"A great blaze!" he said. "What you might call—in fact what the papers 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't that 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 clammy feeling of the water trickling down my back now!"
Memory, always a laggard by the wayside that redeems itself by an eleventh-hour rush, raced back to Jill. The Embankment turned to a sunlit garden, and the January night to a July day. She stared at him. He was looking at her with a whimsical smile. It was a smile which, pleasant today, had seemed mocking and hostile on that afternoon years ago. She had always felt then that he was laughing at her, and at the age of twelve she had resented laughter at her expense.
"You surely can't be Wally Mason!"
"I was wondering when you would remember."