"Blow me if ever I try to rescue a young woman in distress again, if that's the way I'm to be treated," cried Jack. "Shiver my timbers, if she hasn't got hold of that vagabond. There they are, the whole lot of them, carrying her off. No, it's impossible that she can be wanting to go with such a set of villains. On, lads! on! and we'll soon drive them overboard, and just bring her back to learn what she really wants." Saying this, Jack, followed by a score of seamen, rushing up the stage, disappeared behind the side scenes. We heard a tremendous row going on of mingled cries and shouts and shrieks. Presently the seamen returned, dragging with them the perfidious heroine, and well-nigh a dozen of the brigands whom they had captured. In vain the latter protested that they were not really brigands, but simply scene-shifters and labourers, who had been hired to represent those formidable characters. The lady also asserted that she was the lawful wife of the robber chief, and the mother of six children, and that she didn't stand in the slightest fear of him, but that he was the kindest and most indulgent of husbands. At length the manager came on the stage, leading forward the murdered youth and the brigand himself, who now, having laid aside his beard and wig, looked a very harmless individual. The manager, politely addressing the seamen, requested them to return to their seats and allow the performance to continue. After some persuasion they complied, but the illusion was gone, and by the loud remarks which issued from their lips they evidently took very little interest in the plot of the piece. "I say, Smith, how are the babies at home?" shouted one. "You know if you was such a villain as you say, you would be triced up to the yard-arm in quarter less than no time," cried another. The poor actress, as she reappeared, was saluted with, "How goes it with you, Mrs Smith? Have you been to look after the babies?" while the carpenters and scene-shifters were addressed as Jones and Brown and other familiar names. In vain the manager protested against the interruption of the performance. He was desired to dance a hornpipe or sing a sea-song. To the latter invitation he at last acceded, and at length restored somewhat like order in the theatre. Tom and I, having to return on board, left the house before the performance was concluded, so I can give no further account of what happened on that memorable evening.