Jill the Reckless. P. G. Wodehouse

the stalls began to slip. Looking from above, one could have seen a sort of shudder run through the crowd. It was the effect of every member of that crowd starting to move a little more quickly.

      A hand grasped Jill's arm. It was a comforting hand, the hand of a man who had not lost his head. A pleasant voice backed up its message of reassurance.

      "It's no good getting into that mob. You might get hurt. There's no danger; the play isn't going on."

      Jill was shaken; but she had the fighting spirit and hated to show that she was shaken. Panic was knocking at the door of her soul, but dignity refused to be dislodged.

      "All the same," she said, smiling a difficult smile, "it would be nice to get out, wouldn't it?"

      "I was just going to suggest something of that very sort," said the man beside her. "The same thought occurred to me. We can stroll out quite comfortably by our own private route. Come along."

      Jill looked over her shoulder. Derek and Lady Underhill were merged into the mass of refugees. She could not see them. For an instant a little spasm of pique stung her at the thought that Derek had deserted her. She groped her way after her companion, and presently they came by 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 was formidable. Jill recoiled involuntarily.

      "It's all right," said her companion. "It smells worse than it really is. And, anyway, this is the quickest way out."

      They passed through on to the stage, and found themselves in a world of noise and confusion compared with which the auditorium which they had left had been a peaceful place. Smoke was everywhere. A stage-hand, carrying a bucket, lurched past them, bellowing. From somewhere out of sight on the other side of the stage there came a sound of chopping. Jill's companion moved quickly to the switchboard, groped, found a handle, and turned it. In the narrow space between the corner of the proscenium and the edge of the asbestos curtain lights flashed up: and simultaneously there came a sudden diminution of the noise from the body of the house. The stalls, snatched from the intimidating spell of the darkness and able to see each other's faces, discovered that they had been behaving indecorously and checked their struggling, a little ashamed of themselves. The relief would be only momentary, but, while it lasted, it postponed panic.

      "Go straight across the stage," Jill heard her companion say, "out along the passage and turn to the right, and you'll be at the stage-door. I think, as there seems no one else around to do it, I'd better go out and say a few soothing words to the customers. Otherwise they'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 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 spectres. 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.

      "'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 Chester Portwood?" 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." 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!" 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.

      "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 fired on both sides. … But, tell me. You spoke about locking up something at eleven-thirty.