“You’ll have to clear, Fred; I want the stage in ten minutes.”

“I’m not ready for you, Mr. Gascoigne.”

“By — you’ll have to be ready. What’s the matter with you?”

He walked back to the stage. From up above came the sound of sawing.

Gascoigne glared upwards.

“What are you doing up there?”

An indistinguishable mumbling answered him.

Gascoigne turned to the head mechanist.

“Well, you’ll have to knock off in ten minutes, Fred. I’ve got a show to rehearse with people who haven’t worked for four weeks. And we go up to-night. Tonight! Do you think we can work in a sawmill. What is he doing?”

“He’s fixing the mast,” said the head mechanist. “It’s got to be done, Mr. Gascoigne. This bloody stage isn’t—”

He went off into mechanical details. The second act was staged on board a yacht. The setting was elaborate. The lower end of a mast with “practical” rope ladders had to be fixed. This was all done from overhead. Gascoigne and the head mechanist stared up into the flies.

“We’ve flied the mast,” said the mechanist, “and it’s too long for this stage, see. Bert’s fixing it. Have you got weight on, Bert?”

As if in answer, a large black menace flashed between them. There was a nerve-shattering thud, a splintering of wood, and a cloud of dust. At their feet lay a long object rather like an outsize in sash-weights.

Gascoigne and the mechanist instantly flew into the most violent of rages. Their faces were sheet-white and their knees shook. At the tops of their voices they apostrophised the hidden Bert, inviting him to come down and be half killed. Their oaths died away into a shocked silence. Mason had run round from the office, the company had hurried out of the dressing-rooms and were clustered in the entrances. The unfortunate Bert came down from the grid and stood gaping in horror at his handiwork.