The little flames had opened now into great flame-flowers. The people in the theatre were shouting and pressing towards the doors.
‘Oh, how COULD you!’ cried Jane. ‘Let’s get out.’
‘Father said stay here,’ said Anthea, very pale, and trying to speak in her ordinary voice.
‘He didn’t mean stay and be roasted,’ said Robert. ‘No boys on burning decks for me, thank you.’
‘Not much,’ said Cyril, and he opened the door of the box.
But a fierce waft of smoke and hot air made him shut it again. It was not possible to get out that way.
They looked over the front of the box. Could they climb down?
It would be possible, certainly; but would they be much better off?
‘Look at the people,’ moaned Anthea; ‘we couldn’t get through.’
And, indeed, the crowd round the doors looked as thick as flies in the jam-making season.