The effects of international politics are far-reaching. But for them Eliphalet Cardomay would certainly have produced “The Vespers.” The declaration of peace in South Africa was the direct cause of his abandoning the project. A wave of patriotism seized him, and on its impulse he purchased the touring rights of a great military melodrama, entitled “The Flag,” which had been accorded considerable success in a London theatre.
In this play he figured as a dashing, if rather improbable Colonel, whose courage was to be relied upon in any extremity. The extremities were many and dire, but never failed to find our hero alert, sententious, resourceful and with an inexhaustible supply of cigarettes.
Truth to tell, the part was not eminently suited, either to his personality or method. Colonels do not, as a rule, wear much hair upon the temples or nape of the neck, nor do they engage unduly in gesture or vocalisation. Eliphalet, on the other hand, did all these things—declining to sacrifice his established traditions on the shrine of convention. His “Colonel,” therefore, was an indifferent impersonation less like unto a soldier than unto Van Biene in “The Broken Melody.”
In the last scene of the play there was a great “to do”; nothing less, in short, than a bombardment and assault upon the Consulate which the Colonel and his brave followers were defending. With heavy odds against them, these gallant few contrived to hold out until the opportune arrival of a rescue-party headed by the Colonel’s young and lovely daughter, and heralded by a fife-and-drum band.
While the bombardment was in progress the Colonel and a faithful orderly had the stage to themselves. The courageous soldier spent his time between an open cigarette-box and an open window, from which latter vantage he was able to control the movements of his troops, and supply the audience with details of the attack.
Eliphalet Cardomay had been at great pains to make the sounds of the battle convincing. He had bought large drums and employed extra hands to beat the stage with canes. As a final tour de force half a dozen squibs were let off, a single maroon was exploded in an iron bucket, and red fire was burnt with liberality in an adjacent frying-pan.
It was a stirring entertainment. Eliphalet felt he was upholding the best traditions of the race and drama.
During the second week of the tour his satisfaction received a shock.
He was staying at an hotel, the rooms in that particular town being indifferent and unclean, and had returned thither after the performance to sip a cup of cocoa and smoke a small cigar before retiring to rest. He had found a secluded palm-sheltered recess in the lounge, and, at the time the shock occurred, was reflecting that he had, perhaps, allowed himself too free an expression of criticism when discussing with the theatre manager the matter of exits from the auditorium.
His own production was a heavy one, and to give it stage room the manager had moved a quantity of stock scenery and stored it in the two emergency corridors which, in case of necessity, would empty the theatre into a narrow thoroughfare at the back. Eliphalet did not approve of this measure and had quoted the Lord Chamberlain’s rules in support. Mr. Gimball, the manager, had replied, with singular lack of courtesy, that he was quite capable of running the front of the house without interference. To this Eliphalet answered, “Your first duty to your patrons is to provide them with a speedy means of leaving the auditorium.”
And Mr. Gimball returned:
“I can get them out all right if you can get them in.”
An uncalled-for observation, the memory of which rankled. Eliphalet did not aspire to be a master of repartee, and had not engaged in the discussion with a view to sharpening his wits. It seemed obvious every precaution should be taken, especially in the case of a theatre situated next-door to a small-arms and cartridge-making factory and abutting the local gas-works.
Thus it is not unnatural that, in the shade of the hotel palms, he should have sought for more quieting influences. He was sipping the cocoa, when he chanced to overhear the following conversation:
“I shan’t forgive you for this, Bryan, when we might have spent a pleasant evening at a music-hall.”
“Sorry,” said an older voice, “but after all it wasn’t such a bad show. Certainly the battle scene was a bit indifferent—still, one can’t expect everything.”
“A bit indifferent! It was deplorable. But, apart from that, the way that old actor, what’s his name, played the part of the Colonel was enough to drive a man to drink. Going about, smiling, cracking jests, and lighting cigarettes! I’ve been through a decent few shows—Dundee, Barterton, and some others that were pretty warm, too—and I can tell you, people don’t behave like that under shell-fire—they’ve too much to think about to play the mountebank. Carry on with the work and show decent pluck—yes. But behave like that old idiot—no, no!”
“You’re blasé with too much of the real thing, my dear Raeburn. Let’s have a drink and talk about something else.”
But the South African warrior was not to be denied. He had things to say, and meant to say them.
“Half the time,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, “these actor-Johnnies don’t know what they’re doing. A slack, idle crowd, lolling over a bar by day and messing up their faces with grease-paint by night. They’ve no experience of life, or death, or danger, and wouldn’t know how to cope with it if they had. They’re gas-works, that’s all. Lord, it makes me sick to see a man attitudinising and throwing the heroic pose, when if it came to a pinch he’d take to his heels at the sight of a runaway horse half-a-mile away.”
“That statement,” said Eliphalet Cardomay, rising and approaching the two gentlemen, “is offensive and unjust.”
The man who had been speaking, a broad-shouldered, well-built fellow of middle age, spun round in his chair, and eyed the newcomer with disfavour.
“I’m not aware we invited you to join our conversation,” he said.
Eliphalet Cardomay acknowledged the thrust with a fencer’s gesture.
“True; but I feel justified in upholding the honour of my profession, as doubtless you would feel for any person or ideal you may happen to cherish.”
Captain Raeburn cocked his head at a somewhat insolent angle.
“Come on, then, draw up a chair and let’s have it out. It would simplify matters to exchange names. Mine is Raeburn—Captain Raeburn—and this is Mr. Bryan.”
The old actor bowed ceremoniously to each in turn.
“And mine,” he said, “is Eliphalet Cardomay.”
By the expression of surprise on their faces it was clear, until this moment, they had failed to recognise in him the gallant Colonel of an hour before.
“Is it, begad?” said Raeburn. “Then our conversation must have been devilish unpleasant overhearing.” He offered no apology, however.
Eliphalet shrugged his shoulders and, dividing the tails of his long, old-fashioned frock-coat, sat down at the small table.
Mr. Bryan was of more sensitive metal than his companion, and felt the need to smooth some of the creases from the situation.
“Raeburn,” he said, with a conciliatory laugh, “says a good deal he doesn’t mean. You know what it is! Personally, I am sorry you should have overheard his criticisms—very sorry indeed.”
“I am glad I did,” was the response, “for it gives me the chance of refuting them. It is not very agreeable for us to have people saying in public that we lack the essential elements of courage.”
“Well, well, well!” said Raeburn with brusque heartiness, “a word spoken is a bullet fired. No use pretending you didn’t touch the trigger, eh?”
“But is it not unwise to tamper with firearms when you are not acquainted with their mechanism?”
Raeburn coloured a trifle and remarked, “That’s hardly applicable to me, Mr. Cardomay.”
“I was merely enlarging a metaphor you introduced.”
“Ah—I see. Yes. But how about a drink before we start? You won’t refuse a whisky, eh?”
“You may find it hard to believe, but I shall refuse; for oddly enough, and at the risk of destroying one of your illusions, I do not drink alcohol.”
“Ha! Well, that’s a score to you.”
“I wish I could shatter other beliefs as easily. You said we of the stage have no real experience of life, death and danger, and could not cope with it if we had.”
“I did.”
“I, on the other hand, maintain that we have a greater experience than almost any other class. We must know what to do for every occasion, for otherwise we would need at once to seek a fresh means of livelihood—or starve. We live amidst a turmoil of ever-changing emotions——”
“Acted emotions!”
“But very real to us. What we depict is merely what we have known or seen or felt. All our lives we are moving in different scenes and different places—we are rubbing shoulders week by week with different men, different women, and human events, both great and small, which even you, with your battle-field experiences, would find it hard to outrival.”
Raeburn made no reply, but the angle of his nostrils was distinctly sceptical.
“Yes, all the time we are drawing our experiences—learning our lesson from the book of life. A child pricks its finger—and we can study from the child’s mother the measure of sympathy she offers for so small a sorrow, yes, and deduce therefrom how great her sympathy and concern would be if the pricked finger were, instead, a mortal malady. There is no happening too small to be of use to us, to help us with our lesson; and every hour of the day or night we are piecing together the minute mosaic which goes to fashion the broad patterns of our art.”
“H’m! That’s all very nice and very interesting, but forgive me if I don’t exactly see what it’s leading up to.”
“Merely this: that from the lesson we have learnt, we, of all people, are to be relied upon to do the right thing in any emergency.”
Captain Raeburn found the loophole he had been seeking, and fired his shaft unceremoniously.
“Then why, my dear sir, play that last scene in ‘The Flag’ in the manner you do? Surely you don’t imagine a Colonel would really behave like that under similar conditions?”
“Although I have never been in a battle, I can see no reason against his doing so.”
“You can take it from me that he wouldn’t.”
“At the risk of appearing disputatious, I contend, if it were his wish to allay a spirit of panic, that is precisely the way he would set about it.”
“Why, the men would laugh at him.”
“In which case he would have achieved his object.”
“Well, well, well! You could talk from now to dooms-day and not convince me.”
“I am very sorry,” said Eliphalet, rising. “It was good of you to hear me so patiently. Good night.” He hesitated. “I was wondering—you fought in South Africa?”
“Yes, all through the campaign.”
“And have heard and seen many stiff engagements?” Raeburn nodded. “You were commenting unfavourably upon the effects of the battle that I introduce in the play.”
Captain Raeburn produced a cigar and lit it. “ ’Fraid I was,” he agreed.
“Would it be asking too much from you to—to explain in what direction our effects differ from the reality?”
“That’s an awkward question to answer.”
“Meaning we are entirely at fault?”
“Something of the kind.”
Eliphalet sat down again and looked worried. “That’s a pity,” he said. “A great pity. I should like to have it right. Perhaps, if you—er——”
Raeburn spread out his legs. It was evident he rather enjoyed this tribute to his professional skill.
“Certainly, I will. Now, let’s see. These rebels are at the gate, aren’t they? A few shots are fired—answered by rifle-fire from the defenders. That ’ud want organising to a certain extent. There’d be time in it—they’re trained troops—see? Probably a machine-gun would open up somewhere.”
Eliphalet had begun to take notes on the back of an envelope.
“A machine-gun—very good,” he said. “Now, how would that sound?”
Raeburn tapped his forefinger in a metrical beat upon the table.
“I see, I see. Please continue.”
“Isn’t there some talk about the rebels bringing up artillery?”
“Yes; they open fire on the consulate.”
“Ah, that was where you were all over the place. First, you want a low, distant report, then a whistle—SShhreeee—e—u—u—cr—umpp. Something like that they go.”
“Very effective! This is most valuable.”
Under the subtle influence of appreciation the warrior developed his theme and gave many graphic illustrations of the din of battle, each of which the stage mind of Eliphalet Cardomay rapidly translated to the possible resources of the property-room.
“Finally, when the rebels blow up the gate you want a noise—a real noise. That twopenny maroon you explode wouldn’t lift a wicket off a nursery door.”
“And I thought that effect was fairly good,” said Eliphalet plaintively.
“I can only tell you it made me laugh.”
“We must change it, then—it must be changed at once. I pride myself on presenting nothing but the best to my audience. Many thanks, Captain Raeburn; you have rendered me a great service. I shall rehearse the battle-scene very thoroughly and utilise all your valuable suggestions. If you and your friend would honour me by accepting a box for Friday night’s performance, I think I can promise you a reflection of the real thing.”
Probably Mr. Bryan realised that Raeburn would drop a brick, so without giving him time to refuse he gracefully accepted the invitation on behalf of both. And when Eliphalet had wished them “Good night” and departed, he said:
“We’d insulted him quite enough, my dear fellow; we should have been inexcusably rude to have said ‘No.’ ”
“A silly old gas-bag,” smiled Raeburn. “We’ll go, then. Anything for a laugh.”
Next day, and the one following, Eliphalet Cardomay and his stage-manager, Freddie Manning, worked at the battle-scene like grim death. The artillery practice achieved with drums of different notes and a develine whistle was a triumph of realism. A stern suggestion of machine gunnery was contrived by the use of an archaic police rattle, opportunely unearthed from a neighbouring junk shop. For the mining of the gate a large cistern was salvaged from a rubbish-heap and two maroons were placed inside and fired simultaneously.
“Manning,” exclaimed Eliphalet gleefully, “it is tremendous! Now, just once more, and we’ll leave it at that.”
On his way back to the hotel he chanced to meet Captain Raeburn, who was swinging a cane in Broaden Street.
“We shall surprise you to-night,” he said, by way of greeting, and passed on, chuckling.
The Grand Theatre, Wadley, was situated at the top end of a short blind road, standing back from Broaden Street. The stage-door and emergency exits, which, it will be remembered, were blocked with scenery, opened on a narrow thoroughfare at the back.
Approaching the box-office, one passed Messrs. Felder & Syme’s Small Arms and Cartridge factory. Behind them, and separated only by a ten-foot wall, one of the many urban gasometers rose and fell in response to the city’s consumption.
Friday night in Wadley was always the best for business. It was then the “good people” patronised the drama, and Mr. Gimball, the manager, was wont to make special efforts for their better comfort. On Friday there were extra members in the orchestra. On Friday there was red cloth on the front steps. On Friday all the electric light points burnt gaily in the big lustre chandelier above the auditorium, and woe betide the programme-girl that failed to appear in her whitest and newest apron upon that night of nights.
When the returns were brought to Eliphalet Cardomay at the close of the second act, he was agreeably pleased.
“We’ve a fine audience for our new battle,” he observed, “and the play is going well.”
Captain Raeburn sat back in his box, the picture of misery.
“Look here,” he remonstrated, “that fellow Cardomay is awful. How about slipping quietly away?”
But Mr. Bryan would not hear of it.
In the Small Arms factory next door the night-watchman was making himself comfortable against his vigil. By means of a pile of straw-filled cases he constructed an easy-chair. The light of the small caged gas-jet being insufficient to illuminate his Late Football Extra, he produced from his pocket a stump of candle and waxed it to the top of one of the cases. This done, he ensconced himself luxuriously, spread out the paper, and settled down for a “nice read.”
Meanwhile the third act of “The Flag” proceeded. Eddies of rebellion were already lapping against the walls of the consulate. The Colonel’s daughter, disguised as a gipsy, had dropped from the walls and was away in search of aid—and the audience had begun to realise that in the next act there would be trouble, with a capital “T.” They were right.
The print of the halfpenny Football Edition, held in the hands of the night-watchman, began to blur. Delicious little thrills of fatigue pulsed through his limbs. He reflected how foolish he had been never before to have disposed himself so comfortably. Also he reflected how good that pint of dinner ale had been, partaken before coming on duty. Odd thing he had never drunk of dinner ale before! In the future he would remedy that omission—a rounder, mellower and more palatable beverage would be hard to conceive. He closed his eyes and allowed his imagination to picture the big glass tankard and the burnt Sienna distillation it had contained. He tried to open them again but they revolted against the impulse.
“Aft’ all,” he muttered, “aft’ all—wha’s it marrer?”
The paper slipped from his fingers and dropped to the top of the case beside the candle. His hand made a lumbering, futile gesture to regain it, then fell to his knee and skidded off inertly. His head rolled a trifle, lurched forward and his body went limp. Then came the heavy regular purr of a man breathing.
A capricious draught slanted the flame of the candle until it gently touched the corner of the newspaper. Being damp, the paper burnt slowly and only in one direction. Finally it went out, but not before setting light to an enthusiastic wisp of straw. The straw realised at once what was required, and passed the dancing yellow flame along the ridge of the line of overflowing cases. The lids of the cases were screwed down and the heat generated from the burning wisps of protruding straw was insufficient to ignite them. This was very disappointing, for very soon the straw had burnt out and, but for one insignificant circumstance, a very enjoyable fire would have been lost to the neighbourhood. The circumstance in question was provided by a stump of pencil which hung on a string from a notice-board. A final spurt of flame from the last tuft of straw ignited the little piece of cedar-wood, which—nothing if not communicative—promptly conveyed its sorrow to the string supporting it. The string burnt through and the flaming pencil dropped to the floor upon a little heap of paper and rubbish. In these sympathetic surroundings it received every encouragement, and in very little time the whole pile was blazing merrily. A chance puff of wind from an open doorway scattered fragments in three directions, in each of which a cheerful fire resulted.
The packing-room, a few feet down the passage, where stacks of empty cartridge-boxes were stored, was, perhaps, the most successful; although, considering the non-inflammable nature of much of its contents, the small recess beneath the wooden staircase competed very creditably. The third fire was insignificant, confining itself to the cremation of a row of overalls hanging on a line of hooks.
When the night-watchman woke, he found himself confronted with a task beyond the reaches of his capacity. His rush to the fire rack resulted in oversetting two buckets of water, and the flames, laughing at his failure, tore down the ceiling of the packing-room and mounted gleefully to the storey above.
The curtain had just risen on the last act when Mr. Gimball burst through the iron door and almost fell upon Eliphalet Cardomay, waiting in the wings.
“The cartridge factory next door is ablaze,” he gasped, “and the sparks are pouring down by the box-office. Drop the iron curtain and we’ll get the audience out.”
“At once!” assented Cardomay. “But wait a moment—if the stuff is falling outside, will they be able to pass?”
“God! I don’t know—I doubt it.”
“There are five minutes before my entrance. Take me somewhere where I can see—quickly.”
Mr. Gimball hurried him through the iron door and up some private stairs. At the end of a corridor they found a window, and looked down at the street below. Flames were pouring from the factory and the walls bulged dangerously.
“Useless,” said Eliphalet. “We must empty the house through the emergency exits.”
Then he remembered, and looked at Mr. Gimball with condemning eyes.
“I shall lose my licence for this,” muttered the manager hoarsely. “There’s only one way for it—we must pass them through the iron door and out across the stage.”
“You fool!” (It was most unusual for Eliphalet to say a thing like that.) “You fool! Pass three hundred people through a two-foot doorway? There’d be a panic—a horrible panic. We must clear those blocked exits, that’s all.”
“It’ll take an hour.”
“We’ll do it in a quarter.”
“But in the meantime?”
“In the meantime we will play the play.”
“But, my God, don’t you realise that place is full of explosives? Even if we’re not blown up, the row——”
“And don’t you realise it is a battle scene we shall be playing?”
Then, as fast as his years would carry him, he hurried back to the stage.
“What orders, Guv’nor?” said Manning, who, through the open door of the scene entrance, could see the progress of the fire.
“Get all your men, Manning, everyone who is not actually playing, and clear the stuff from the emergency exits. The front of the house is impassable. Make a job of it, Manning, while I hold the audience.”
“Right!” said Manning. “Now, boys, every one of you.” He was stripping off his coat as Eliphalet heard his cue and walked on to the stage.
Even through the make-up, fear was written large on the face of old Kitterson, who played the orderly.
“We’re in for a rough time,” said Eliphalet, speaking from the text.
There came a sharp, insistent crackle—almost merged into a single report. A shelf of twelve-bore cartridges had gone up next door.
Eliphalet took a cigarette from his case and lit it steadily.
“Why, man,” he said lightly, between the puffs, “you are not afraid—are you?” He stretched out his hand and gripped old Kitterson’s arm with a warning pressure.
“We’ve been through too much together to show the white feather now.”
Half his words were lost in the roar and crackle from outside.
Captain Raeburn touched his friend’s arm.
“Altering the lines, aren’t they?” he queried.
“Damn good effect of something burning. You can almost smell the smoke.”
Eliphalet had smelt the smoke too. It made him cough, so he impromptued quickly.
“The devils have fired the outbuildings. Phew! how the infernal fumes choke one.”
He strode over to the window, through which, and beyond the edge of the back cloth, the open scene door gave a view of the factory fire.
Great geysers of flame were spouting from the back windows and reaching loving hands toward the gasometer, not sixty feet distant.
Old Kitterson had followed and he, too, saw and realised the waiting danger.
“God!” he exclaimed. “If that catches!” And there was a note of terror in his voice.
“Yes,” said Eliphalet thoughtfully, “if they fire the magazine it would not be pleasant.”
Kitterson was plucking his sleeve and beckoning him to come away, but Eliphalet threw the old fellow from him with a fine flash of anger in his voice and eyes.
“If we are to die,” he cried, “we will die like soldiers and gentlemen—at our posts.”
There was a hoarse, solid detonation, followed by a splutter of little reports and the sharp stink of gunpowder filled the auditorium.
Some ladies in the stalls moved restively, and complained it was too realistic. In the gallery a girl shrieked, and some boys mocked her with their laughter.
Eliphalet Cardomay was sitting on the window-sill, lighting a fresh cigarette.
“Well done, lads,” he cried to his imaginary forces below. “A few more like that, and we——”
A great piece of the factory wall fell noisily into the yard, and the released flames poured out toward the gasometer. Eliphalet could feel the sweat breaking out upon his forehead. He almost prayed for that devastating flash which would end the charade. But a gentle wind took the matter in hand and fanned the tongues of flame away.
De—dinga—longa—longalong. De—dong—along—along.
The engines were coming. He had forgotten the possibility of that sound and the message of terror it might convey to the audience. If the truth leaked out there would be a panic. They would find the front of the theatre impassable, and battle with each other in the blocked exits.
So he burst into a great shout of laughter.
“Some idiot is ringing the fire bell!” he shouted. “Ha! the fool. Come, Weldon; don’t you see the joke? Laugh, man; laugh!”
“I can’t make this out,” Raeburn was saying. “Wait here a minute. I am going to see.”
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:
“They are piling explosives beneath the main gate, sir.”
“We shall go to our Maker with a better speed, then.”
“Is there nothing we can do?”
“Nothing, if the relief is not in time. We have still our prayers and a generous supply of these excellent cigarettes.”
Kitterson (at the window): “Ah! they are lighting the fuse. They move away from it. It burns slowly—Guv’nor—sir!”
Almost with a single impulse the entire audience clapped hands over his ears, and, by a caprice of fortune, some thousands of rounds of best smokeless cartridges detonated with a hollow, paralysing roar.
The whole building shook. The long line of the back-cloth snapped, and it swung down from a single tether. Several women went into hysterics, and a quantity of plaster mouldings fell from the roof and splattered among the audience.
Then there was silence—no sound but the soothing hiss of water on red-hot beams.
Eliphalet Cardomay, with arms folded, stood in the middle of the stage, a queer smile playing about his lips; Kitterson had dropped his head in his hands and was crouching beside a table; and then the door burst open, and little Violet O’Neal, “the Colonel’s daughter,” followed by two men in officers’ uniforms, burst upon the stage.
“It’s all right,” she gasped. “The danger—the worst is over.”
Suddenly her part came back to her.
“The rebels are flying,” she cried. “You’re safe—safe!”
Eliphalet, Colonel and father, caught her to his breast, smothering something she was saying about the gasometer.
“God has rescued us, my child—God is very good.”
And Manning, who had dashed up from the street a second before, was just in time to ring down.
“Exits all clear, Guv’nor,” he cried.
“Take up the curtain, then,” said Eliphalet; and when it rose he stepped forward to the footlights and, holding up his hand for silence, said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, will you kindly leave the theatre by the right and left emergency exits. There has been a fire in the street by the box-office, so this way will be more convenient.”
He bowed—turned with a pardonable instinct towards the box in which Raeburn and his friend were standing, and favoured them with a very slight smile.
The curtain fell and the audience, in some perplexity, but without panic, filed out of the theatre to the narrow alley at the back.
“Mr. Cardomay,” said Gimball, “I reckon you’ve saved my licence.”
“It had not occurred to me I had so important a task to fulfil,” returned Eliphalet.
“I can tell you I’m grateful.”
“Well, you will at least admit I kept them in the theatre and got them out.”
In the foyer of the hotel Captain Raeburn was waiting, a broad hand outstretched to greet him.
“You flirted with death better than anyone I’ve struck yet,” he said. “I estimate you have saved a hundred lives to-night, Mr. Cardomay. Are you big enough to accept an apology?”
A flush of pride spread over Eliphalet’s rugose features.
“I am small enough to be deeply flattered by it,” he replied, as he took the proffered hand. “Yet, after all, it was a simple enough matter. I had but to follow my training—to give them a few whiffs from the gas-works.”
“I deserve it, Colonel,” Raeburn acknowledged, “and a good kicking besides. But look here, after all this, surely you’ll have a drink to-night.”
Eliphalet smiled whimsically.
“Why, yes,” he said, “I should enjoy a cup of cocoa very much.”
“Have it your own way,” laughed Raeburn, and gave the order.
Eliphalet divided the tails of his coat and sat himself comfortably on a cane chair.
“Despite our earnest preparations, you never heard the new battle effects, after all.”
“What I heard was pretty convincing, though!”
“Ye—es! But still, it’s disappointing. Now, if you and your friend would accept a box for to-morrow night——”
And Raeburn had the good grace to answer:
“There is nothing I should enjoy more.”