The stock scene was being struck. The fluted columns and gilded walls of all stock scenes fell forward as softly as leaves, and were run off into the dock. An Adam drawing-room, painted by an artist, and in excellent condition, was shoved together like a gigantic house of cards and tightened at the corners. Flack, flack, went the toggles as the stage-hands laced them over the wooden cleats.

“We don’t want those borders,” said Gascoigne.

“Kill the borders, Bert,” said the head mechanist, loudly.

“Kill the borders,” repeated a voice up in the flies. The painted strips that masked the overhead jerked out of sight one by one.

“Now the ceiling cloth.”

Outside in the strange town a clock chimed and struck eleven. Members of the cast began to come in and look for their dressing-rooms. They were called for eleven-thirty. Gascoigne saw the Australians and crossed the stage to speak to them. He began talking about their parts. His manner was pleasant and friendly, and the Australians, who were on the defensive about English importations, started to thaw. Gascoigne told them where they were to dress. He checked himself to shout:

“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 tonight. 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.