“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.