Jill the Reckless

P >> P. G. (Pelham Grenville) Wodehouse >> Jill the Reckless

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"Fire!"

Sir Chester Portwood, ploughing his way through a long speech, stopped
and looked apprehensively over his shoulder. The girl with the lisp,
who had been listening in a perfunctory manner to the long speech,
screamed loudly. The voice of an unseen stage-hand called thunderously
to an invisible "Bill" to commere quick. And from the scenery on the
prompt side there curled lazily across the stage a black wisp of
smoke.

"Fire! Fire! Fire!"

"Just," said a voice at Jill's elbow, "what the play needed!" The
mysterious author was back in his seat again.

CHAPTER III

JILL AND THE UNKNOWN ESCAPE

I

In these days when the authorities who watch over the welfare of the
community have taken the trouble to reiterate encouragingly in printed
notices that a full house can be emptied in three minutes and that all
an audience has to do in an emergency is to walk, not run, to the
nearest exit, fire in the theatre has lost a good deal of its old-time
terror. Yet it would be paltering with the truth to say that the
audience which had assembled to witness the opening performance of the
new play at the Leicester was entirely at its ease. The asbestos
curtain was already on its way down, which should have been
reassuring: but then asbestos curtains never look the part. To the lay
eye they seem just the sort of thing that will blaze quickest.
Moreover, it had not yet occurred to the man at the switchboard to
turn up the house-lights, and the darkness was disconcerting.

Portions of the house were taking the thing better than other
portions. Up in the gallery a vast activity was going on. The clatter
of feet almost drowned the shouting. A moment before it would have
seemed incredible that anything could have made the occupants of the
gallery animated, but the instinct of self-preservation had put new
life into them.

The stalls had not yet entirely lost their self-control. Alarm was in
the air, but for the moment they hung on the razor-edge between panic
and dignity. Panic urged them to do something sudden and energetic;
dignity counselled them to wait. They, like the occupants of the
gallery, greatly desired to be outside, but it was bad form to rush
and jostle. The men were assisting the women in their cloaks, assuring
them the while that it was "all right" and that they must not be
frightened. But another curl of smoke had crept out just before the
asbestos curtain completed its descent, and their words lacked the
ring of conviction. The movement towards the exits had not yet become
a stampede, but already those with seats nearest the stage had begun
to feel that the more fortunate individuals near the doors were
infernally slow in removing themselves.

Suddenly, as if by mutual inspiration, the composure of the stalls
began to slip. Looking from above, one could have seen a sort of
shudder run through the crowd. It was the effect of every member of
that crowd starting to move a little more quickly.

A hand grasped Jill's arm. It was a comforting hand, the hand of a man
who had not lost his head. A pleasant voice backed up its message of
reassurance.

"It's no good getting into that mob. You might get hurt. There's no
danger; the play isn't going on."

Jill was shaken; but she had the fighting spirit and hated to show
that she was shaken. Panic was knocking at the door of her soul, but
dignity refused to be dislodged.

"All the same," she said, smiling a difficult smile, "it would be nice
to get out, wouldn't it?"

"I was just going to suggest something of that very sort," said the
man beside her. "The same thought occurred to me. We can stroll out
quite comfortably by our own private route. Come along."

Jill looked over her shoulder. Derek and Lady Underhill were merged
into the mass of refugees. She could not see them. For an instant a
little spasm of pique stung her at the thought that Derek had deserted
her. She groped her way after her companion, and presently they came
by way of a lower box to the iron pass-door leading to the stage.

As it opened, smoke blew through, and the smell of burning was
formidable. Jill recoiled involuntarily.

"It's all right," said her companion. "It smells worse than it really
is. And, anyway, this is the quickest way out."

They passed through on to the stage, and found themselves in a world
of noise and confusion compared with which the auditorium which they
had left had been a peaceful place. Smoke was everywhere. A
stage-hand, carrying a bucket, lurched past them, bellowing. From
somewhere out of sight on the other side of the stage there came a
sound of chopping. Jill's companion moved quickly to the switchboard,
groped, found a handle, and turned it. In the narrow space between the
corner of the proscenium and the edge of the asbestos curtain lights
flashed up: and simultaneously there came a sudden diminution of the
noise from the body of the house. The stalls, snatched from the
intimidating spell of the darkness and able to see each other's faces,
discovered that they had been behaving indecorously and checked their
struggling, a little ashamed of themselves. The relief would be only
momentary, but, while it lasted, it postponed panic.

"Go straight across the stage," Jill heard her companion say, "out
along the passage and turn to the right, and you'll be at the
stage-door. I think, as there seems no one else around to do it, I'd
better go out and say a few soothing words to the customers. Otherwise
they'll be biting holes in each other."

He squeezed through the narrow opening in front of the curtain.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

Jill remained where she was, leaning with one hand against the
switchboard. She made no attempt to follow the directions he had given
her. She was aware of a sense of comradeship, of being with this man
in this adventure. If he stayed, she must stay. To go now through the
safety of the stage-door would be abominable desertion. She listened,
and found that she could hear plainly in spite of the noise. The smoke
was worse than ever, and hurt her eyes, so that the figures of the
theatre-firemen, hurrying to and fro, seemed like Brocken spectres.
She slipped a corner of her cloak across her mouth, and was able to
breathe more easily.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that there is absolutely no
danger. I am a stranger to you, so there is no reason why you should
take my word, but fortunately I can give you solid proof. If there
were any danger, _I_ wouldn't be here. All that has happened is that
the warmth of your reception of the play has set a piece of scenery
alight...."

A crimson-faced stage-hand, carrying an axe in blackened hands, roared
in Jill's ear.

"'Op it!" shouted the stage-hand. He cast his axe down with a clatter.
"Can't you see the place is afire?"

"But--but I'm waiting for...." Jill pointed to where her ally was
still addressing an audience that seemed reluctant to stop and listen
to him.

The stage-hand squinted out round the edge of the curtain.

"If he's a friend of yours, miss, kindly get 'im to cheese it and get
a move on. We're clearing out. There's nothing we can do. It's got too
much of an 'old. In about another two ticks the roof's going to drop
on us."

Jill's friend came squeezing back through the opening.

"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 Chester Portwood?" enquired her companion of the
stage-hand, who hurried beside them.

"'Opped it!" replied the other briefly, and coughed raspingly as he
swallowed smoke.

"Strange," said the man in Jill's ear, as he pulled her along. "This
way. Stick to me. Strange how the drama anticipates life! At the end
of Act Two there was a scene where Sir Chester had to creep sombrely
out into the night, and now he's gone and done it! Ah!"

They had stumbled through a doorway and were out in a narrow passage,
where the air, though tainted, was comparatively fresh. Jill drew a
deep breath. Her companion turned to the stage-hand and felt in his
pocket.

"Here." A coin changed hands. "Go and get a drink. You need it after
all this."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it. You've saved our lives. Suppose you hadn't come up
and told us, and we had never noticed there was a fire!" He turned to
Jill. "Here's the stage-door. Shall we creep sombrely out into the
night?"

The guardian of the stage-door was standing in the entrance of his
little hutch, plainly perplexed. He was a slow thinker and a man whose
life was ruled by routine, and the events of the evening had left him
uncertain how to act.

"Wot's all this about a fire?" he demanded.

Jill's friend stopped.

"A fire?" He looked at Jill. "Did _you_ hear anything about a fire?"

"They all come bustin' past 'ere yelling there's a fire," persisted
the door-man.

"By George! Now I come to think of it, you're perfectly right! There
_is_ a fire! If you wait here a little longer you'll get it in the
small of the back. Take the advice of an old friend who means you well
and vanish. In the inspired words of the lad we've just parted from,
'op it!"

The stage-door man turned this over in his mind for a space.

"But I'm supposed to stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock up!" he
said. "That's what I'm supposed to do. Stay 'ere till eleven-thirty
and lock up! And it ain't but ten forty-five now."

"I see the difficulty," said Jill's companion thoughtfully.

"Well, Casabianca, I'm afraid I don't see how to help you. It's a
matter for your own conscience. I don't want to lure you from the
burning deck; on the other hand, if you stick on here you'll most
certainly be fired on both sides.... But, tell me. You spoke about
locking up something at eleven-thirty. What are you supposed to lock
up?"

"Why, the theatre."

"Then that's all right. By eleven-thirty there won't _be_ a theatre.
If I were you, I should leave quietly and unostentatiously now.
To-morrow, if you wish it, and if they've cooled off sufficiently, you
can come and sit on the ruins. Good night!"

II

Outside, the air was cold and crisp. Jill drew her warm cloak closer.
Round the corner there was noise and shouting. Fire-engines had
arrived. Jill's companion lit a cigarette.

"Do you wish to stop and see the conflagration?" he asked.

Jill shivered. She was more shaken than she had realized.

"I've seen all the conflagration I want."

"Same here. Well, it's been an exciting evening. Started slow, I
admit, but warmed up later! What I seem to need at the moment is a
restorative stroll along the Embankment. Do you know, Sir Chester
Portwood didn't like the title of my play. He said 'Tried by Fire' was
too melodramatic. Well, he can't say now it wasn't appropriate."

They made their way towards the river, avoiding the street which was
blocked by the crowds and the fire-engines. As they crossed the
Strand, the man looked back. A red glow was in the sky.

"A great blaze!" he said. "What you might call--in fact what the
papers _will_ call--a holocaust. Quite a treat for the populace."

"Do you think they will be able to put it out?"

"Not a chance. It's got too much of a hold. It's a pity you hadn't
that garden-hose of yours with you, isn't it?"

Jill stopped, wide-eyed.

"Garden-hose?"

"Don't you remember the garden-hose? I do! I can feel that clammy
feeling of the water trickling down my back now!"

Memory, always a laggard by the wayside that redeems itself by an
eleventh-hour rush, raced back to Jill. The Embankment turned to a
sun-lit garden, and the January night to a July day. She stared at
him. He was looking at her with a whimsical smile. It was a smile
which, pleasant to-day, had seemed mocking and hostile on that
afternoon years ago. She had always felt then that he was laughing at
her, and at the age of twelve she had resented laughter at her
expense.

"You surely can't be Wally Mason!" "I was wondering when you would
remember." "But the programme called you something else--John
something."

"That was a cunning disguise. Wally Mason is the only genuine and
official name. And, by Jove! I've just remembered yours. It was
Mariner. By the way,"--he paused for an almost imperceptible
instant--"is it still?"

CHAPTER IV

THE LAST OF THE ROOKES TAKES A HAND

I

Jill was hardly aware that he had asked her a question. She was
suffering that momentary sense of unreality which comes to us when the
years roll away and we are thrown abruptly back into the days of our
childhood. The logical side of her mind was quite aware that there was
nothing remarkable in the fact that Wally Mason, who had been to her
all these years a boy in an Eton suit, should now present himself as a
grown man. But for all that the transformation had something of the
effect of a conjuring-trick. It was not only the alteration in his
appearance that startled her: it was the amazing change in his
personality. Wally Mason had been the _bete noire_ of her childhood.
She had never failed to look back at the episode of the garden-hose
with the feeling that she had acted well, that--however she might have
strayed in those early days from the straight and narrow path--in that
one particular crisis she had done the right thing. And now she had
taken an instant liking for him. Easily as she made friends, she had
seldom before felt so immediately drawn to a strange man. Gone was
the ancient hostility, and in its place a soothing sense of
comradeship. The direct effect of this was to make Jill feel suddenly
old. It was as if some link that joined her to her childhood had been
snapped.

She glanced down the Embankment. Close by, to the left, Waterloo
Bridge loomed up, dark and massive against the steel-grey sky. A
tram-car, full of home-bound travellers, clattered past over rails
that shone with the peculiarly frost-bitten gleam that seems to herald
snow. Across the river everything was dark and mysterious, except for
an occasional lamp-post and the dim illumination of the wharves. It
was a depressing prospect, and the thought crossed her mind that to
the derelicts whose nightly resting-place was a seat on the Embankment
the view must seem even bleaker than it did to herself. She gave a
little shiver. Somehow this sudden severance from the old days had
brought with it a forlornness. She seemed to be standing alone in a
changed world.

"Cold?" said Wally Mason.

"A little."

"Let's walk."

They moved westwards. Cleopatra's Needle shot up beside them, a
pointing finger. Down on the silent river below, coffin-like row-boats
lay moored to the wall. Through a break in the trees the clock over
the Houses of Parliament shone for an instant as if suspended in the
sky, then vanished as the trees closed in. A distant barge in the
direction of Battersea wailed and was still. It had a mournful and
foreboding sound. Jill shivered again. It annoyed her that she could
not shake off this quite uncalled-for melancholy, but it withstood
every effort. Why she should have felt that a chapter, a pleasant
chapter, in the book of her life had been closed, she could not have
said, but the feeling lingered.

"Correct me if I am wrong," said Wally Mason, breaking a silence that
had lasted several minutes, "but you seem to me to be freezing in your
tracks. Ever since I came to London I've had a habit of heading for
the Embankment in times of mental stress, but perhaps the middle of
winter is not quite the moment for communing with the night. The Savoy
is handy, if we stop walking away from it. I think we might celebrate
this re-union with a little supper, don't you?"

Jill's depression disappeared magically. Her mercurial temperament
asserted itself.

"Lights!" she said. "Music!"

"And food! To an ethereal person like you that remark may seem gross,
but I had no dinner."

"You poor dear! Why not?"

"Just nervousness."

"Why, of course." The interlude of the fire had caused her to forget
his private and personal connection with the night's events. Her mind
went back to something he had said in the theatre. "Wally--" She
stopped, a little embarrassed. "I suppose I ought to call you Mr.
Mason, but I've always thought of you...."

"Wally, if you please, Jill. It's not as though we were strangers. I
haven't my book of etiquette with me, but I fancy that about eleven
gallons of cold water down the neck constitutes an introduction. What
were you going to say?"

"It was what you said to Freddie about putting up money. Did you
really?"

"Put up the money for that ghastly play? I did. Every cent. It was the
only way to get it put on."

"But why...? I forget what I was going to say!"

"Why did I want it put on? Well, it does seem odd, but I give you my
honest word that until to-night I thought the darned thing a
masterpiece. I've been writing musical comedies for the last few
years, and after you've done that for a while your soul rises up
within you and says, 'Come, come, my lad! You can do better than
this!' That's what mine said, and I believed it. Subsequent events
have proved that Sidney the Soul was pulling my leg!"

"But--then you've lost a great deal of money?"

"The hoarded wealth, if you don't mind my being melodramatic for a
moment, of a lifetime. And no honest old servitor who dangled me on
his knee as a baby to come along and offer me his savings! They don't
make servitors like that in America, worse luck. There is a Swedish
lady who looks after my simple needs back there, but instinct tells me
that, if I were to approach her on the subject of loosening up for the
benefit of the young master, she would call a cop. Still, I've gained
experience, which they say is just as good as cash, and I've enough
money left to pay the bill, at any rate, so come along."

In the supper-room of the Savoy Hotel there was, as anticipated, food
and light and music. It was still early, and the theatres had not yet
emptied themselves, so that the big room was as yet but half full.
Wally Mason had found a table in the corner, and proceeded to order
with the concentration of a hungry man.

"Forgive my dwelling so tensely on the bill-of-fare," he said, when
the waiter had gone. "You don't know what it means to one in my
condition to have to choose between _poulet en casserole_ and kidneys
_a la maitre d'hotel_. A man's cross-roads!"

Jill smiled happily across the table at him. She could hardly believe
that this old friend with whom she had gone through the perils of the
night and with whom she was now about to feast was the sinister figure
that had cast a shadow on her childhood. He looked positively
incapable of pulling a little girl's hair--as no doubt he was.

"You always were greedy," she commented. "Just before I turned the
hose on you, I remember you had made yourself thoroughly disliked by
pocketing a piece of my birthday cake."

"Do you remember that?" His eyes lit up and he smiled back at her. He
had an ingratiating smile. His mouth was rather wide, and it seemed to
stretch right across his face. He reminded Jill more than ever of a
big, friendly dog. "I can feel it now--all squashy in my pocket,
inextricably mingled with a catapult, a couple of marbles, a box of
matches, and some string. I was quite the human general store in those
days. Which reminds me that we have been some time settling down to an
exchange of our childish reminiscences, haven't we?"

"I've been trying to realize that you are Wally Mason. You have
altered so."

"For the better?"

"Very much for the better! You were a horrid little brute. You used to
terrify me. I never knew when you were going to bound out at me from
behind a tree or something. I remember your chasing me for miles,
shrieking at the top of your voice!"

"Sheer embarrassment! I told you just now how I used to worship you.
If I shrieked a little, it was merely because I was shy. I did it to
hide my devotion."

"You certainly succeeded. I never even suspected it."

Wally sighed.

"How like life! I never told my love, but let concealment like a worm
i' the bud...."

"Talking of worms, you once put one down my back!"

"No, no," said Wally in a shocked voice. "Not that I I was boisterous,
perhaps, but surely always the gentleman."

"You did! In the shrubbery. There had been a thunderstorm and...."

"I remember the incident now. A mere misunderstanding. I had done with
the worm, and thought you might be glad to have it."

"You were always doing things like that. Once you held me over the
pond and threatened to drop me into the water--in the winter! Just
before Christmas. It was a particularly mean thing to do, because I
couldn't even kick your shins for fear you would let me fall. Luckily
Uncle Chris came up and made you stop."

"You considered that a fortunate occurrence, did you?" said Wally.
"Well, perhaps from your point of view it may have been. I saw the
thing from a different angle. Your uncle had a whangee with him. My
friends sometimes wonder what I mean when I say that my old wound
troubles me in frosty weather. By the way, how is your uncle?"

"Oh, he's very well. Just as lazy as ever. He's away at present, down
at Brighton."

"He didn't strike me as lazy," said Wally thoughtfully. "Dynamic would
express it better. But perhaps I happened to encounter him in a moment
of energy. Ah!" The waiter had returned with a loaded tray. "The food!
Forgive me if I seem a little distrait for a moment or two. There is
man's work before me!"

"And later on, I suppose, you would like a chop or something to take
away in your pocket?"

"I will think it over. Possibly a little soup. My needs are very
simple these days."

Jill watched him with a growing sense of satisfaction. There was
something boyishly engaging about this man. She felt at home with him.
He affected her in much the same way as did Freddie Rooke. He was a
definite addition to the things that went to make her happy.

She liked him particularly for being such a good loser. She had
always been a good loser herself, and the quality was one which she
admired. It was nice of him to dismiss from his conversation--and
apparently from his thoughts--that night's fiasco and all that it must
have cost him. She wondered how much he had lost. Certainly something
very substantial. Yet it seemed to trouble him not at all. Jill
considered his behaviour gallant, and her heart warmed to him. This
was how a man ought to take the slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune.

Wally sighed contentedly, and leaned back in his chair.

"An unpleasant exhibition!" he said apologetically. "But unavoidable.
And, anyway, I take it that you prefer to have me well-fed and happy
about the place than swooning on the floor with starvation. A
wonderful thing, food! I am now ready to converse intelligently on any
subject you care to suggest. I have eaten rose-leaves and am no more a
golden ass, so to speak. What shall we talk about?"

"Tell me about yourself."

"There is no nobler topic. But what aspect of myself do you wish me to
touch on? My thoughts, my tastes, my amusements, my career, or what? I
can talk about myself for hours. My friends in New York often complain
about it bitterly."

"New York?" said Jill. "Oh, then you live in America?"

"Yes. I only came over here to see that darned false alarm of a play
of mine put on."

"Why didn't you put it on in New York?"

"Too many of the lads of the village know me over there. This was a
new departure, you see. What the critics in those parts expect from me
is something entitled 'Wow! Wow!' or 'The Girl from Yonkers.' It would
have unsettled their minds to find me breaking out in poetic drama.
They are men of coarse fibre and ribald mind and they would have been
funny about it. I thought it wiser to come over here among strangers,
little thinking that I should sit in the next seat to somebody I had
known all my life."

"But when did you go to America? And why?"

"I think it must have been four--five--well, quite a number of years
after the hose episode. Probably you didn't observe that I wasn't
still around, but we crept silently out of the neighbourhood round
about that time and went to live in London." His tone lost its
lightness momentarily. "My father died, you know, and that sort of
broke things up. He didn't leave any too much money, either.
Apparently we had been living on rather too expensive a scale during
the time I knew you. At any rate, I was more or less up against it
until your father got me a job in an office in New York."

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