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: