“Resume your seats, _please_. There’s no danger of any kind. The band will now play _Hiawatha_. Give ’em a few chords!” he called to his brass and drums, and half-a-dozen tantararas drowned the noise of the struggles and counter-struggles of those who would go and those who would urge them to stay. A panicky stripling, seeing a clear way, vaulted the partition between pit and stalls, and was promptly floored by one on the jaw from Hercules in uniform. He howled. Stalls struggled to see him, and the pit pushed the stalls back. Many women screamed. They were carried out, kicking. Men told other men that there was nothing the matter. They clambered on seats to say it. They struck with fist and boot other men who disagreed with them. The yellow and black men dashed hither and thither, receiving many blows but never ceasing to run. They did not know for what or from what they ran. They ran because they ran. A group of lads raided the bar. They helped themselves and they smashed many glasses and bottles. The chuckers-out became oathful and malevolent. They hit right and left. In the wings, the manager was dumb. His mouth had vomited the entire black vocabulary. He had nothing more to say. The skirts of his dress coat had the appearance of two exhausted tongues. The position of his tie showed that he was a man smitten and afflicted: one who had attempted large things while knowing himself to lack the force necessary to achieve them; one who had climbed the steeps of pain to the bally limit; one who was no longer a man but a tortured organism. “Billie,” he cried to the red-nose bill-topper, “Billie, for Christ’s sake go on, and quiet ’em, there’s a good chap. This is the sack for me, if there’s a panic.” “No good, old boy. Sorry. Can’t do anything with a mixed gang like yours. Nearly got the blasted bird just now.” “Well—you—Miss Gutacre. For the Lord’s sake—go on. Give ’em anything. Give ’em _He tickled the Lady’s Fancy_.” “Oh, Jack, old man, I daren’t,” whimpered the stout soubrette. “I couldn’t hold ’em. I’ve never faced a gang like that. If Billie won’t go, I won’t. ’Tain’t fair to ask me.” “Well, you’re a couple of damn devils, that’s what you are—I beg pardon—I mean. No, but, look here.... If——” He broke off, suddenly aware that someone was peremptorily agitating his coat-tails. “What the blazes d’you want, kid?” “I’ll go on, sir,” said Gina placidly. “You? What the heaven d’you think a shrimp like you can do?” “I can hold ’em, sir. I know I can. Bet you what you like. Turn me loose, and see! Ring the orchestra for _La Maxixe_, one verse and dance.” “Mr Catanach!” A boy in a disordered uniform sprang from nowhere. “You’re wanted here—quick.” The manager swung four ways at once, unable to go one way for thought of the others. Then he gave two orders to the stage manager. “Ring through for the _Masheesh_. Then send that kid on.”