The Little Warrior Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  1.

  In these days when the authorities who watch over the welfare of thecommunity have taken the trouble to reiterate encouragingly inprinted notices that a full house can be emptied in three minutes andthat all an audience has to do in an emergency is to walk, not run,to the nearest exit, fire in the theatre has lost a good deal of itsold-time terror. Yet it would be paltering with the truth to say thatthe audience which had assembled to witness the opening performanceof the new play at the Leicester was entirely at its ease. Theasbestos curtain was already on its way down, which should have beenreassuring: but then asbestos curtains never look the part. To thelay eye 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 into their cloaks,assuring them the while that it was "all right" and that they mustnot be frightened. But another curl of smoke had crept out justbefore the asbestos curtain completed its descent, and their wordslacked the ring of conviction. The movement towards the exits had notyet become a stampede, but already those with seats nearest the stagehad begun to feel that the more fortunate individuals near the doorswere infernally 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 aman who had not lost his head. A pleasant voice backed up its messageof reassurance.

  "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 benice to 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 haddeserted her. She groped her way after her companion, and presentlythey came by way of a lower box to the iron pass-door leading to thestage.

  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 onto 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 betweenthe corner of the proscenium and the edge of the asbestos curtainlights flashed up: and simultaneously there came a sudden diminutionof the noise from the body of the house. The stalls, snatched fromthe intimidating spell of the darkness and able to see each other'sfaces, discovered that they had been behaving indecorously andchecked their struggling, a little ashamed of themselves. The reliefwould be only momentary, 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.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 theswitchboard. She made no attempt to follow the directions he hadgiven her. She was aware of a sense of comradeship, of being withthis man in this adventure. If he stayed, she must stay. To go nowthrough the safety of the stage-door would be abominable desertion.She listened, and found that she could hear plainly in spite of thenoise. The smoke was worse than ever, and hurt her eyes, so that thefigures of the theatre-firemen, hurrying to and fro, seemed likeBrocken 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 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,roared in Jill's ear.

  "Gerroutofit!"

  Jill looked at him, puzzled.

  "'Op it!" shouted the stage-hand. He cast his axe down with aclatter. "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 gottoo much of an 'old. In about another two ticks the roof's going todrop 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?" Thesimple 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 thesmell of burning paint.

  "Where's Sir Portwood Chester?" 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, Rollo!" A coin changed hands. "Go and get a drink. You need itafter all 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! Charredbones, believed to be those of a man and a woman, were found in theruined edifice!"

  He turned to Jill. "Here's the stage-door. Shall we creep sombrelyout into the night?"

  The guardian of the stage-door was standing in the entrance of hislittle hutch, plainly perplexed. He was a slow thinker and a manwhose life was ruled by routine: and the events of the evening hadleft 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," 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 youwell and vanish. In the inspired words of the lad we've just partedfrom, '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. "It'swhat you might call an _impasse_. French! Well, Casabianca, I'mafraid I don't see how to help you. It's a matter for your ownconscience. I don't want to lure you from the burning deck: on theother hand, if you stick on here, you'll most certainly be fried onboth sides . . . But, tell me. You spoke about locking up somethingat 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. IfI were you, I should leave quietly and unostentatiously now.Tomorrow, if you wish it, and if they've cooled off sufficiently, youcan 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 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 PortwoodChester 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 asunlit 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 today, 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 would remember."

  "But the programme called you something else,--John something."

  "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?"