GAS WORKS
The effects of international politics are far-reaching. But for them
Eliphalet Cardomay would certainly have produced “The Vespers.” The
declaration of peace in South Africa was the direct cause of his
abandoning the project. A wave of patriotism seized him, and on its
impulse he purchased the touring rights of a great military melodrama,
entitled “The Flag,” which had been accorded considerable success in a
London theatre.
In this play he figured as a dashing, if rather improbable Colonel,
whose courage was to be relied upon in any extremity. The extremities
were many and dire, but never failed to find our hero alert,
sententious, resourceful and with an inexhaustible supply of cigarettes.
Truth to tell, the part was not eminently suited, either to his
personality or method. Colonels do not, as a rule, wear much hair upon
the temples or nape of the neck, nor do they engage unduly in gesture or
vocalisation. Eliphalet, on the other hand, did all these
things—declining to sacrifice his established traditions on the shrine
of convention. His “Colonel,” therefore, was an indifferent
impersonation less like unto a soldier than unto Van Biene in “The
Broken Melody.”
In the last scene of the play there was a great “to do”; nothing less,
in short, than a bombardment and assault upon the Consulate which the
Colonel and his brave followers were defending. With heavy odds against
them, these gallant few contrived to hold out until the opportune
arrival of a rescue-party headed by the Colonel’s young and lovely
daughter, and heralded by a fife-and-drum band.
While the bombardment was in progress the Colonel and a faithful orderly
had the stage to themselves. The courageous soldier spent his time
between an open cigarette-box and an open window, from which latter
vantage he was able to control the movements of his troops, and supply
the audience with details of the attack.
Eliphalet Cardomay had been at great pains to make the sounds of the
battle convincing. He had bought large drums and employed extra hands to
beat the stage with canes. As a final _tour de force_ half a dozen
squibs were let off, a single maroon was exploded in an iron bucket, and
red fire was burnt with liberality in an adjacent frying-pan.
It was a stirring entertainment. Eliphalet felt he was upholding the
best traditions of the race and drama.
During the second week of the tour his satisfaction received a shock.
He was staying at an hotel, the rooms in that particular town being
indifferent and unclean, and had returned thither after the performance
to sip a cup of cocoa and smoke a small cigar before retiring to rest.
He had found a secluded palm-sheltered recess in the lounge, and, at the
time the shock occurred, was reflecting that he had, perhaps, allowed
himself too free an expression of criticism when discussing with the
theatre manager the matter of exits from the auditorium.
His own production was a heavy one, and to give it stage room the
manager had moved a quantity of stock scenery and stored it in the two
emergency corridors which, in case of necessity, would empty the theatre
into a narrow thoroughfare at the back. Eliphalet did not approve of
this measure and had quoted the Lord Chamberlain’s rules in support. Mr.
Gimball, the manager, had replied, with singular lack of courtesy, that
he was quite capable of running the front of the house without
interference. To this Eliphalet answered, “Your first duty to your
patrons is to provide them with a speedy means of leaving the
auditorium.”
And Mr. Gimball returned:
“I can get them out all right if you can get them in.”
An uncalled-for observation, the memory of which rankled. Eliphalet did
not aspire to be a master of repartee, and had not engaged in the
discussion with a view to sharpening his wits. It seemed obvious every
precaution should be taken, especially in the case of a theatre situated
next-door to a small-arms and cartridge-making factory and abutting the
local gas-works.
Thus it is not unnatural that, in the shade of the hotel palms, he
should have sought for more quieting influences. He was sipping the
cocoa, when he chanced to overhear the following conversation:
“I shan’t forgive you for this, Bryan, when we might have spent a
pleasant evening at a music-hall.”
“Sorry,” said an older voice, “but after all it wasn’t such a bad show.
Certainly the battle scene was a bit indifferent—still, one can’t
expect everything.”
“A bit indifferent! It was deplorable. But, apart from that, the way
that old actor, what’s his name, played the part of the Colonel was
enough to drive a man to drink. Going about, smiling, cracking jests,
and lighting cigarettes! I’ve been through a decent few shows—Dundee,
Barterton, and some others that were pretty warm, too—and I can tell
you, people don’t behave like that under shell-fire—they’ve too much to
think about to play the mountebank. Carry on with the work and show
decent pluck—yes. But behave like that old idiot—no, no!”
“You’re blasé with too much of the real thing, my dear Raeburn. Let’s
have a drink and talk about something else.”
But the South African warrior was not to be denied. He had things to
say, and meant to say them.
“Half the time,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, “these
actor-Johnnies don’t know what they’re doing. A slack, idle crowd,
lolling over a bar by day and messing up their faces with grease-paint
by night. They’ve no experience of life, or death, or danger, and
wouldn’t know how to cope with it if they had. They’re gas-works, that’s
all. Lord, it makes me sick to see a man attitudinising and throwing the
heroic pose, when if it came to a pinch he’d take to his heels at the
sight of a runaway horse half-a-mile away.”
“That statement,” said Eliphalet Cardomay, rising and approaching the
two gentlemen, “is offensive and unjust.”
The man who had been speaking, a broad-shouldered, well-built fellow of
middle age, spun round in his chair, and eyed the newcomer with
disfavour.
“I’m not aware we invited you to join our conversation,” he said.
Eliphalet Cardomay acknowledged the thrust with a fencer’s gesture.
“True; but I feel justified in upholding the honour of my profession, as
doubtless you would feel for any person or ideal you may happen to
cherish.”
Captain Raeburn cocked his head at a somewhat insolent angle.
“Come on, then, draw up a chair and let’s have it out. It would simplify
matters to exchange names. Mine is Raeburn—Captain Raeburn—and this is
Mr. Bryan.”
The old actor bowed ceremoniously to each in turn.
“And mine,” he said, “is Eliphalet Cardomay.”
By the expression of surprise on their faces it was clear, until this
moment, they had failed to recognise in him the gallant Colonel of an
hour before.
“Is it, begad?” said Raeburn. “Then our conversation must have been
devilish unpleasant overhearing.” He offered no apology, however.
Eliphalet shrugged his shoulders and, dividing the tails of his long,
old-fashioned frock-coat, sat down at the small table.
Mr. Bryan was of more sensitive metal than his companion, and felt the
need to smooth some of the creases from the situation.
“Raeburn,” he said, with a conciliatory laugh, “says a good deal he
doesn’t mean. You know what it is! Personally, I am sorry you should
have overheard his criticisms—very sorry indeed.”
“I am glad I did,” was the response, “for it gives me the chance of
refuting them. It is not very agreeable for us to have people saying in
public that we lack the essential elements of courage.”
“Well, well, well!” said Raeburn with brusque heartiness, “a word spoken
is a bullet fired. No use pretending you didn’t touch the trigger, eh?”
“But is it not unwise to tamper with firearms when you are not
acquainted with their mechanism?”
Raeburn coloured a trifle and remarked, “That’s hardly applicable to me,
Mr. Cardomay.”
“I was merely enlarging a metaphor you introduced.”
“Ah—I see. Yes. But how about a drink before we start? You won’t refuse
a whisky, eh?”
“You may find it hard to believe, but I shall refuse; for oddly enough,
and at the risk of destroying one of your illusions, I do not drink
alcohol.”
“Ha! Well, that’s a score to you.”
“I wish I could shatter other beliefs as easily. You said we of the
stage have no real experience of life, death and danger, and could not
cope with it if we had.”
“I did.”
“I, on the other hand, maintain that we have a greater experience than
almost any other class. We must know what to do for every occasion, for
otherwise we would need at once to seek a fresh means of livelihood—or
starve. We live amidst a turmoil of ever-changing emotions——”
“Acted emotions!”
“But very real to us. What we depict is merely what we have known or
seen or felt. All our lives we are moving in different scenes and
different places—we are rubbing shoulders week by week with different
men, different women, and human events, both great and small, which even
you, with your battle-field experiences, would find it hard to
outrival.”
Raeburn made no reply, but the angle of his nostrils was distinctly
sceptical.
“Yes, all the time we are drawing our experiences—learning our lesson
from the book of life. A child pricks its finger—and we can study from
the child’s mother the measure of sympathy she offers for so small a
sorrow, yes, and deduce therefrom how great her sympathy and concern
would be if the pricked finger were, instead, a mortal malady. There is
no happening too small to be of use to us, to help us with our lesson;
and every hour of the day or night we are piecing together the minute
mosaic which goes to fashion the broad patterns of our art.”
“H’m! That’s all very nice and very interesting, but forgive me if I
don’t exactly see what it’s leading up to.”
“Merely this: that from the lesson we have learnt, we, of all people,
are to be relied upon to do the right thing in any emergency.”
Captain Raeburn found the loophole he had been seeking, and fired his
shaft unceremoniously.
“Then why, my dear sir, play that last scene in ‘The Flag’ in the manner
you do? Surely you don’t imagine a Colonel would really behave like that
under similar conditions?”
“Although I have never been in a battle, I can see no reason against his
doing so.”
“You can take it from me that he wouldn’t.”
“At the risk of appearing disputatious, I contend, if it were his wish
to allay a spirit of panic, that is precisely the way he would set about
it.”
“Why, the men would laugh at him.”
“In which case he would have achieved his object.”
“Well, well, well! You could talk from now to dooms-day and not convince
me.”
“I am very sorry,” said Eliphalet, rising. “It was good of you to hear
me so patiently. Good night.” He hesitated. “I was wondering—you fought
in South Africa?”
“Yes, all through the campaign.”
“And have heard and seen many stiff engagements?” Raeburn nodded. “You
were commenting unfavourably upon the effects of the battle that I
introduce in the play.”
Captain Raeburn produced a cigar and lit it. “’Fraid I was,” he agreed.
“Would it be asking too much from you to—to explain in what direction
our effects differ from the reality?”
“That’s an awkward question to answer.”
“Meaning we are entirely at fault?”
“Something of the kind.”
Eliphalet sat down again and looked worried. “That’s a pity,” he said.
“A great pity. I should like to have it right. Perhaps, if you—er——”
Raeburn spread out his legs. It was evident he rather enjoyed this
tribute to his professional skill.
“Certainly, I will. Now, let’s see. These rebels are at the gate, aren’t
they? A few shots are fired—answered by rifle-fire from the defenders.
That ’ud want organising to a certain extent. There’d be time in
it—they’re trained troops—see? Probably a machine-gun would open up
somewhere.”
Eliphalet had begun to take notes on the back of an envelope.
“A machine-gun—very good,” he said. “Now, how would that sound?”
Raeburn tapped his forefinger in a metrical beat upon the table.
“I see, I see. Please continue.”
“Isn’t there some talk about the rebels bringing up artillery?”
“Yes; they open fire on the consulate.”
“Ah, that was where you were all over the place. First, you want a low,
distant report, then a whistle—SShhreeee—e—u—u—cr—umpp. Something
like that they go.”
“Very effective! This is most valuable.”
Under the subtle influence of appreciation the warrior developed his
theme and gave many graphic illustrations of the din of battle, each of
which the stage mind of Eliphalet Cardomay rapidly translated to the
possible resources of the property-room.
“Finally, when the rebels blow up the gate you want a noise—a real
noise. That twopenny maroon you explode wouldn’t lift a wicket off a
nursery door.”
“And I thought that effect was fairly good,” said Eliphalet plaintively.
“I can only tell you it made me laugh.”
“We must change it, then—it must be changed at once. I pride myself on
presenting nothing but the best to my audience. Many thanks, Captain
Raeburn; you have rendered me a great service. I shall rehearse the
battle-scene very thoroughly and utilise all your valuable suggestions.
If you and your friend would honour me by accepting a box for Friday
night’s performance, I think I can promise you a reflection of the real
thing.”
Probably Mr. Bryan realised that Raeburn would drop a brick, so without
giving him time to refuse he gracefully accepted the invitation on
behalf of both. And when Eliphalet had wished them “Good night” and
departed, he said:
“We’d insulted him quite enough, my dear fellow; we should have been
inexcusably rude to have said ‘No.’”
“A silly old gas-bag,” smiled Raeburn. “We’ll go, then. Anything for a
laugh.”
Next day, and the one following, Eliphalet Cardomay and his
stage-manager, Freddie Manning, worked at the battle-scene like grim
death. The artillery practice achieved with drums of different notes and
a develine whistle was a triumph of realism. A stern suggestion of
machine gunnery was contrived by the use of an archaic police rattle,
opportunely unearthed from a neighbouring junk shop. For the mining of
the gate a large cistern was salvaged from a rubbish-heap and two
maroons were placed inside and fired simultaneously.
“Manning,” exclaimed Eliphalet gleefully, “it is tremendous! Now, just
once more, and we’ll leave it at that.”
On his way back to the hotel he chanced to meet Captain Raeburn, who was
swinging a cane in Broaden Street.
“We shall surprise you to-night,” he said, by way of greeting, and
passed on, chuckling.
The Grand Theatre, Wadley, was situated at the top end of a short blind
road, standing back from Broaden Street. The stage-door and emergency
exits, which, it will be remembered, were blocked with scenery, opened
on a narrow thoroughfare at the back.
Approaching the box-office, one passed Messrs. Felder & Syme’s Small
Arms and Cartridge factory. Behind them, and separated only by a
ten-foot wall, one of the many urban gasometers rose and fell in
response to the city’s consumption.
Friday night in Wadley was always the best for business. It was then the
“good people” patronised the drama, and Mr. Gimball, the manager, was
wont to make special efforts for their better comfort. On Friday there
were extra members in the orchestra. On Friday there was red cloth on
the front steps. On Friday all the electric light points burnt gaily in
the big lustre chandelier above the auditorium, and woe betide the
programme-girl that failed to appear in her whitest and newest apron
upon that night of nights.
When the returns were brought to Eliphalet Cardomay at the close of the
second act, he was agreeably pleased.
“We’ve a fine audience for our new battle,” he observed, “and the play
is going well.”
Captain Raeburn sat back in his box, the picture of misery.
“Look here,” he remonstrated, “that fellow Cardomay is awful. How about
slipping quietly away?”
But Mr. Bryan would not hear of it.
In the Small Arms factory next door the night-watchman was making
himself comfortable against his vigil. By means of a pile of
straw-filled cases he constructed an easy-chair. The light of the small
caged gas-jet being insufficient to illuminate his Late Football Extra,
he produced from his pocket a stump of candle and waxed it to the top of
one of the cases. This done, he ensconced himself luxuriously, spread
out the paper, and settled down for a “nice read.”
Meanwhile the third act of “The Flag” proceeded. Eddies of rebellion
were already lapping against the walls of the consulate. The Colonel’s
daughter, disguised as a gipsy, had dropped from the walls and was away
in search of aid—and the audience had begun to realise that in the next
act there would be trouble, with a capital “T.” They were right.
The print of the halfpenny Football Edition, held in the hands of the
night-watchman, began to blur. Delicious little thrills of fatigue
pulsed through his limbs. He reflected how foolish he had been never
before to have disposed himself so comfortably. Also he reflected how
good that pint of dinner ale had been, partaken before coming on duty.
Odd thing he had never drunk of dinner ale before! In the future he
would remedy that omission—a rounder, mellower and more palatable
beverage would be hard to conceive. He closed his eyes and allowed his
imagination to picture the big glass tankard and the burnt Sienna
distillation it had contained. He tried to open them again but they
revolted against the impulse.
“Aft’ all,” he muttered, “aft’ all—wha’s it marrer?”
The paper slipped from his fingers and dropped to the top of the case
beside the candle. His hand made a lumbering, futile gesture to regain
it, then fell to his knee and skidded off inertly. His head rolled a
trifle, lurched forward and his body went limp. Then came the heavy
regular purr of a man breathing.
A capricious draught slanted the flame of the candle until it gently
touched the corner of the newspaper. Being damp, the paper burnt slowly
and only in one direction. Finally it went out, but not before setting
light to an enthusiastic wisp of straw. The straw realised at once what
was required, and passed the dancing yellow flame along the ridge of the
line of overflowing cases. The lids of the cases were screwed down and
the heat generated from the burning wisps of protruding straw was
insufficient to ignite them. This was very disappointing, for very soon
the straw had burnt out and, but for one insignificant circumstance, a
very enjoyable fire would have been lost to the neighbourhood. The
circumstance in question was provided by a stump of pencil which hung on
a string from a notice-board. A final spurt of flame from the last tuft
of straw ignited the little piece of cedar-wood, which—nothing if not
communicative—promptly conveyed its sorrow to the string supporting it.
The string burnt through and the flaming pencil dropped to the floor
upon a little heap of paper and rubbish. In these sympathetic
surroundings it received every encouragement, and in very little time
the whole pile was blazing merrily. A chance puff of wind from an open
doorway scattered fragments in three directions, in each of which a
cheerful fire resulted.
The packing-room, a few feet down the passage, where stacks of empty
cartridge-boxes were stored, was, perhaps, the most successful;
although, considering the non-inflammable nature of much of its
contents, the small recess beneath the wooden staircase competed very
creditably. The third fire was insignificant, confining itself to the
cremation of a row of overalls hanging on a line of hooks.
When the night-watchman woke, he found himself confronted with a task
beyond the reaches of his capacity. His rush to the fire rack resulted
in oversetting two buckets of water, and the flames, laughing at his
failure, tore down the ceiling of the packing-room and mounted gleefully
to the storey above.
The curtain had just risen on the last act when Mr. Gimball burst
through the iron door and almost fell upon Eliphalet Cardomay, waiting
in the wings.
“The cartridge factory next door is ablaze,” he gasped, “and the sparks
are pouring down by the box-office. Drop the iron curtain and we’ll get
the audience out.”
“At once!” assented Cardomay. “But wait a moment—if the stuff is
falling outside, will they be able to pass?”
“God! I don’t know—I doubt it.”
“There are five minutes before my entrance. Take me somewhere where I
can see—quickly.”
Mr. Gimball hurried him through the iron door and up some private
stairs. At the end of a corridor they found a window, and looked down at
the street below. Flames were pouring from the factory and the walls
bulged dangerously.
“Useless,” said Eliphalet. “We must empty the house through the
emergency exits.”
Then he remembered, and looked at Mr. Gimball with condemning eyes.
“I shall lose my licence for this,” muttered the manager hoarsely.
“There’s only one way for it—we must pass them through the iron door
and out across the stage.”
“You fool!” (It was most unusual for Eliphalet to say a thing like
that.) “You fool! Pass three hundred people through a two-foot doorway?
There’d be a panic—a horrible panic. We must clear those blocked exits,
that’s all.”
“It’ll take an hour.”
“We’ll do it in a quarter.”
“But in the meantime?”
“In the meantime we will play the play.”
“But, my God, don’t you realise that place is full of explosives? Even
if we’re not blown up, the row——”
“And don’t you realise it is a battle scene we shall be playing?”
Then, as fast as his years would carry him, he hurried back to the
stage.
“What orders, Guv’nor?” said Manning, who, through the open door of the
scene entrance, could see the progress of the fire.
“Get all your men, Manning, everyone who is not actually playing, and
clear the stuff from the emergency exits. The front of the house is
impassable. Make a job of it, Manning, while I hold the audience.”
“Right!” said Manning. “Now, boys, every one of you.” He was stripping
off his coat as Eliphalet heard his cue and walked on to the stage.
Even through the make-up, fear was written large on the face of old
Kitterson, who played the orderly.
“We’re in for a rough time,” said Eliphalet, speaking from the text.
There came a sharp, insistent crackle—almost merged into a single
report. A shelf of twelve-bore cartridges had gone up next door.
Eliphalet took a cigarette from his case and lit it steadily.
“Why, man,” he said lightly, between the puffs, “you are not afraid—are
you?” He stretched out his hand and gripped old Kitterson’s arm with a
warning pressure.
“We’ve been through too much together to show the white feather now.”
Half his words were lost in the roar and crackle from outside.
Captain Raeburn touched his friend’s arm.
“Altering the lines, aren’t they?” he queried.
“Damn good effect of something burning. You can almost smell the smoke.”
Eliphalet had smelt the smoke too. It made him cough, so he impromptued
quickly.
“The devils have fired the outbuildings. Phew! how the infernal fumes
choke one.”
He strode over to the window, through which, and beyond the edge of the
back cloth, the open scene door gave a view of the factory fire.
Great geysers of flame were spouting from the back windows and reaching
loving hands toward the gasometer, not sixty feet distant.
Old Kitterson had followed and he, too, saw and realised the waiting
danger.
“God!” he exclaimed. “If that catches!” And there was a note of terror
in his voice.
“Yes,” said Eliphalet thoughtfully, “if they fire the magazine it would
not be pleasant.”
Kitterson was plucking his sleeve and beckoning him to come away, but
Eliphalet threw the old fellow from him with a fine flash of anger in
his voice and eyes.
“If we are to die,” he cried, “we will die like soldiers and
gentlemen—at our posts.”
There was a hoarse, solid detonation, followed by a splutter of little
reports and the sharp stink of gunpowder filled the auditorium.
Some ladies in the stalls moved restively, and complained it was too
realistic. In the gallery a girl shrieked, and some boys mocked her with
their laughter.
Eliphalet Cardomay was sitting on the window-sill, lighting a fresh
cigarette.
“Well done, lads,” he cried to his imaginary forces below. “A few more
like that, and we——”
Crash!
A great piece of the factory wall fell noisily into the yard, and the
released flames poured out toward the gasometer. Eliphalet could feel
the sweat breaking out upon his forehead. He almost prayed for that
devastating flash which would end the charade. But a gentle wind took
the matter in hand and fanned the tongues of flame away.
De—dinga—longa—longalong. De—dong—along—along.
The engines were coming. He had forgotten the possibility of that sound
and the message of terror it might convey to the audience. If the truth
leaked out there would be a panic. They would find the front of the
theatre impassable, and battle with each other in the blocked exits.
So he burst into a great shout of laughter.
“Some idiot is ringing the fire bell!” he shouted. “Ha! the fool. Come,
Weldon; don’t you see the joke? Laugh, man; laugh!”
“I can’t make this out,” Raeburn was saying. “Wait here a minute. I am
going to see.”
He slipped from the box and ran down a deserted corridor. On his left he
heard the sound of men’s voices and the moving of heavy objects. He
pushed open a door labelled “Extra Exit” and found Manning with a crowd
of furiously working actors and stage hands humping large scene flats
into the street at the back. They worked as though their very lives
depended upon it.
“What’s up?” demanded Raeburn.
Freddie Manning scarcely looked in his direction, but he jerked out:
“Get away and keep your mouth shut.”
Raeburn took the hint, and made his way to the box-office. The road
outside was blocked with fallen débris and mantled in a smother of
smoke. It cleared for a second, long enough to show him half a dozen
engines farther down, with brass-helmeted firemen busy paying out the
hose.
Clinging to one of the theatre pillars was the night-watchman—a
shivering wreck of what so short a time before had been a fine
connoisseur of dinner ale.
“There’s thousands o’ rounds up there,” he dithered, pointing at the
still-to-catch top storey. “And if they don’t set off the gas-works, may
I never touch another pint.”
Then Captain Raeburn understood many things, and he returned to his box
to watch the man he had belittled deal with emergency.
Eliphalet Cardomay had got his second wind and was holding the audience
with a light but firm rein. He was jesting with death at his
elbow—tickling the feet of Fate, and strewing the stage with
half-smoked cigarettes. Old Kitterson, fired by example, had braced his
shoulders for the ordeal and was doing his best to help the Guv’nor in
his hour of need.
They had reverted to the original text when Raeburn re-entered the box,
and Kitterson was saying:
“They are piling explosives beneath the main gate, sir.”
“We shall go to our Maker with a better speed, then.”
“Is there nothing we can do?”
“Nothing, if the relief is not in time. We have still our prayers and a
generous supply of these excellent cigarettes.”
Kitterson (at the window): “Ah! they are lighting the fuse. They move
away from it. It burns slowly—Guv’nor—sir!”
Almost with a single impulse the entire audience clapped hands over his
ears, and, by a caprice of fortune, some thousands of rounds of best
smokeless cartridges detonated with a hollow, paralysing roar.
The whole building shook. The long line of the back-cloth snapped, and
it swung down from a single tether. Several women went into hysterics,
and a quantity of plaster mouldings fell from the roof and splattered
among the audience.
Then there was silence—no sound but the soothing hiss of water on
red-hot beams.
Eliphalet Cardomay, with arms folded, stood in the middle of the stage,
a queer smile playing about his lips; Kitterson had dropped his head in
his hands and was crouching beside a table; and then the door burst
open, and little Violet O’Neal, “the Colonel’s daughter,” followed by
two men in officers’ uniforms, burst upon the stage.
“It’s all right,” she gasped. “The danger—the worst is over.”
Suddenly her part came back to her.
“The rebels are flying,” she cried. “You’re safe—safe!”
Eliphalet, Colonel and father, caught her to his breast, smothering
something she was saying about the gasometer.
“God has rescued us, my child—God is very good.”
And Manning, who had dashed up from the street a second before, was just
in time to ring down.
“Exits all clear, Guv’nor,” he cried.
“Take up the curtain, then,” said Eliphalet; and when it rose he stepped
forward to the footlights and, holding up his hand for silence, said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, will you kindly leave the theatre by the right
and left emergency exits. There has been a fire in the street by the
box-office, so this way will be more convenient.”
He bowed—turned with a pardonable instinct towards the box in which
Raeburn and his friend were standing, and favoured them with a very
slight smile.
The curtain fell and the audience, in some perplexity, but without
panic, filed out of the theatre to the narrow alley at the back.
“Mr. Cardomay,” said Gimball, “I reckon you’ve saved my licence.”
“It had not occurred to me I had so important a task to fulfil,”
returned Eliphalet.
“I can tell you I’m grateful.”
“Well, you will at least admit I kept them in the theatre and got them
out.”
In the _foyer_ of the hotel Captain Raeburn was waiting, a broad hand
outstretched to greet him.
“You flirted with death better than anyone I’ve struck yet,” he said. “I
estimate you have saved a hundred lives to-night, Mr. Cardomay. Are you
big enough to accept an apology?”
A flush of pride spread over Eliphalet’s rugose features.
“I am small enough to be deeply flattered by it,” he replied, as he took
the proffered hand. “Yet, after all, it was a simple enough matter. I
had but to follow my training—to give them a few whiffs from the
gas-works.”
“I deserve it, Colonel,” Raeburn acknowledged, “and a good kicking
besides. But look here, after all this, surely you’ll have a drink
to-night.”
Eliphalet smiled whimsically.
“Why, yes,” he said, “I should enjoy a cup of cocoa very much.”
“Have it your own way,” laughed Raeburn, and gave the order.
Eliphalet divided the tails of his coat and sat himself comfortably on a
cane chair.
“Despite our earnest preparations, you never heard the new battle
effects, after all.”
“What I heard was pretty convincing, though!”
“Ye—es! But still, it’s disappointing. Now, if you and your friend
would accept a box for to-morrow night——”
And Raeburn had the good grace to answer:
“There is nothing I should enjoy more.”
_PART II. AND A ROUGH COMPOUND_