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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 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.
    “Gawdstreuth, Mr. Gascoigne, I don’t know how it happened. Gawdstreuth, Mr. Gascoigne, I’m sorry. Gawdstreuth.”
    “Shut your — face,” suggested the head mechanist, unprintably. “Do you want to go to gaol for manslaughter?”
    “Don’t you know the first — rule about working in the flies. Don’t you know—”
    Mason went back to the office. One by one the company returned to their dressing-rooms.
     
    “And what,” said the oldest of the three reporters, “is your opinion of our railroads, Mr. Meyer? How do they compare with those in the Old Country?”
    Mr. Meyer shifted uncomfortably on his cushion and his hand stole round to his rear.
    “I think they’re marvellous,” he said.
     
    Hailey Hambledon knocked on Carolyn’s door.
    “Are you ready, Carol? It’s a quarter past.”
    “Come in, darling.”
    He went into the bedroom she shared with Meyer. It looked exactly like all their other bedrooms on tour. There was the wardrobe trunk, the brilliant drape on the bed, Carolyn’s photos of Meyer, of herself, and of her father, the parson in Bucks. And there, on the dressing-table, was her complexion in its scarlet case. She was putting the final touches to her lovely face and nodded to him in the looking-glass.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Meyer,” said Hambledon and kissed her fingers with the same light gesture he had so often used on the stage.
    “Good morning, Mr. Hambledon.” They spoke with that unnatural and half-ironical gaiety that actors so often assume when greeting each other outside the theatre.
    Carolyn turned back to her mirror.
    “I’m getting very set-looking, Hailey. Older and older.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Don’t you? I expect you do, really, You think to yourself sometimes: It won’t be long before she is too old for such-and-such a