“Bravo!” screamed to them the excited Brentin. “The left-hand table, gentlemen!”
Right and left the tables were absolutely deserted. As the sailors pounced on and proceeded to clear them, I had an unobstructed view down the length of the remaining rooms right to the exit.
Such a scene of terrified, shouting, screaming confusion I never saw; nor ever shall, unless my lurid evil star should one day carry me into the hot heart of a theatre-panic, the uncontrollable frenzied meeting of a fighting pit, gallery, dress circle, and stalls. They say a man will give all he hath for his life, and here were innumerable men and women, believing their precious lives in peril, giving all their fiery energies play in their efforts to best their neighbor and reach the door. Often, by-the-way, as I have heard of people wringing their hands, this was the only occasion on which I ever really saw it done. One of the footmen, in his absurd, ill-fitting livery, was standing on one of the side sofas, a chap with laughable long whiskers, a discolored beak of a nose, and a rabbit mouth; there he stood, dancing up and down, his face all puckered with terror, actually wringing his hands in his misfitting long sleeves. Then he suddenly fell over and crawled away, yelping like a frightened lap-dog, and for the life of me I couldn’t help a spirit of laughter.
“Gracious!” yelled Brentin, above the indescribable din, “I hope no one will be injured. Loose off your gun, friend Parsons.”
_Bang!_ went Teddy’s revolver. I looked at him; his face was still dead white, while his mouth was working and distorted with a dreadful grin. _Bang!_ it went again, while Teddy gave a silly laugh. Like a shot in a mine that clears the air, or like the blowing out of a candle at ten paces, the blank discharge had its due effect. The tortured mass heaved and groaned, yielding irresistibly to the pressure of their terrors; irresistibly they began to pour and gush out through the swing-doors at the end. Every second, so fast they went, our road to safety was notably being cleared for us.
To the right we went again into the next room, in the same irreproachable order, with the same sublime results. Arthur Masters, in all the energetic glory of battle, was waving his revolver, trying to crack it, beating it against his thigh, as though it were a whip, cheering on his men like hounds. He is master, as I have mentioned, of a pack of harriers in Hertfordshire, and all the time he was at work in the last two rooms he was musically crying, “Melody! Harmony! Trixie! Hie over, lass, hie over!” And once, as one of his sailors bent on the floor over a few scattered louis, he roared at him, “’Ware trash!” When safe in England, I told him of it afterwards. He laughed and declared he hadn’t the slightest recollection of doing anything of the sort.