Their eyes were on their leader, and in silence, breathing hard, each man's teeth clenched upon his cutlass, they hounded after him and across the Pit at his heels.
It may be that this vivid reproduction of his alleged exploit off Pernambuco for the moment held Mr.Orlando B.Sturge paralysed.
At any rate, he stood by the footlights staring, with a face on which resentment faded into amaze, amaze into stupefaction.
It is improbable that he dreamed of any personal danger until the moment when Mr.Jope, leaping the orchestra and crashing, on his way, through an abandoned violoncello, landed across the footlights and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Never you mind, lad!" cried Mr.Jope cheerfully, taking the cutlass from between his teeth and waving it.

"You'll get better treatment along o' we." "What mean you?
Unhand me--Off, I say, minion!" "It'll blow over, lad; it'll blow over.

You take my advice and come quiet--Oh, but we _want_ you!--an' if you hear another word about this evening's work I'll forfeit my mess." "Hands off, ruffian! Help, I say, there--Help!" "Shame! Shame!" cried a dozen voices.

But nine-tenths of the audience were already pressing around the doors to escape.
At a nod from Mr.Jope, two seamen ran and cut the cords supporting the drop-scene.
"Heads, there! Heads!" The great roller fell upon the stage with a resounding bang.
With the thud of it, a hand descended and smote upon the Major's shoulder.
"Come along o' me.

_You'll_ give no trouble, anyway." "Eh ?" said the Major.