THE MARTINIS.

Otago Witness, 1 June 1910, Page 81

THE MARTINIS.

By C. R. Allen. Miss Chrissie Lightfoot came to the end of her dance amid a final cascade of chiffon and lace and the clashing of cymbals from the orchestra, kissed her hand to the audience for the third time, and vanished, leaving the last lines of her song to linger for a moment in the minds of the young men in the stalls : And then if yon inquire If there's a hcrase oii fire. You'll find the boys are running after Maisie. An attendant changed the number posted at the side of the stage, and the audience looked at its programme to see what No. 7 might be. No. 7 was printed in large type: THE MARTINIS, CHAMPION SHARPSHOOTERS OF THE WORLD. 3 Intrepid Artistes 3. Direct from the Winter Gardens, Berlin. So ran the inscription. The audience sat back and waited to be thrilled. There was a hush of expectancy as the three Martinis walked on to the stage. The manager of this provincial music hall had arranged his programme with a due appreciation of the effects of light and shade. Chrissie Lightfoot had flitted like, a butterfly before the footlights, the embodiment of everything that was frothy and ephemeral. But the three strange figures that took her place belonged to no butterfly world. They brought with them an atmosphere of the wild west, where passions are primitive and human nature is stripped of her gauds and trappings. The Martini troupe consisted of a man and two girls. The man was tall and gaunt, and was dressed in a red shirt, riding breeches, and gaiters and large wideawake hat. His dark, spare face suggested the chisel of the sculptor, so rugged was its strength, so immobile its expression. Only the piercing brown eyes smouldered and glinted in the fierce light of the stage. His hair was dark, thick, and long, and he wore a sweeping moustache and ragged imperial. His two companions were young women of medium build with the same dark passivity of face, and glowing, restless eyes. They were dressed like the man, except that a dark blue skirt took the place of the riding breeches. Exotic and strange as their costume and appearance were, it was in their movements that they gripped the attention and imagination of the audience. There was something of hypnotic suggestion in their very walk. One thought instinctively of the . padded, noiseless march of the tiger. As the man swept off his hat and bowed low to the audience many in the theatre experienced a feeling almost of repugnance. The thing was done with such cat-like agility, and there was the odd suggestion of a menace in the flash of his white teeth as he bared them in a half-sarcastic smile. A flaxenr haired youth in the stalls found himself wishing heartily that Chrissie Lightfoot would come back and oust this sardoniclooking stranger. He was too redolent of strong, raw life, his person, too fraught with mysterious possibilities to coincide with the frame of mind that sends a young man to a music hall. An attendant followed the Martinis with their paraphernalia, and withdrew when he had made everything ready for the "turn." Then the Martinis began to do things with their rifles that set the whole audience on edge. The stage became a veritable house of death, through which those three mysterious figures moved unhurt. The two girls stood against large screens of white paper, with arms extended, while the man at the other side of the stage kept up a continuous fire, with the apparent intention of killing them at every shot. After a few minutes he ceased, and the girls stepped away from the screens. Outlined in black holes on the white paper were the figures of the two girls as they had stood there with extended arms. After that the women proceeded to ■pepper the man, smashing wine-glasses held in his mouth, flattening coins held between his fingers. The young man with the flaxen hair gripped the sides of his seat. "I don't like this," he said to his companion. " Let's go out and have a drink." "Wouldn't move if I were pou." said the other man. "Might put 'em off their aim." "By Jove! They're goin' to do the William Tell trick with a glass marble. I say, how that gunpowder smells." Other neople in the audience had noticed the increasing density of the atmosphere. A thin blue haze seemed to be floating across" the footlights into the darkened auditorium. "I wish to God they'd stop," said the flaxen-haired one. "It's a deuced funny smell." His companion said nothing. His ear had caught the sound of a commotion behind the scenes. His nostrils were assailed by the pungent odour of burning varnish. A rustle went through the audience like the sudden stirring of leaves in an autumn breeze. The restlessness seemed to spread to the performers on the stage. For a moment they appeared distraught and preoccupied in the midst of their perilous performance. Then a woman in the audience screamed "Fire!" and the wave of panic that had been gathering. hung for a. moment before it broke. A dense blue haze had gathered on the stage, and the swish of water could be heard coming from one of the wings. . Here . and there . <a woman

screamed and a man sprang to his feet. Then the safety curtain began to descend, disclosing the advertisements painted flamboyantly ipon its asbestos surface as it did so. Suddenly it jammed and stuck, just as a large advertisement for somebody's coal came into sight. It showed a red and jubilant devil a'-marently stoking" the infernal fires with his pitchfork, while the lettering of the advertisement ran thus : "Our coal is the cheapest on earth. Elsewhere we have but one competitor." As the safety-curtain stuck, this crudely humorous picture took on a new and hideous signi.Vance. The. smoke began to pour out in volumes from the back of the stage. The smell of burning canvas filled the whole building. The lights went up, and it was seen that a panic was almost inevitable. The theatre was an old one. There was no gallery, and the exits were all at the back. Already the scuffling of feet had begun, while the large audience seemed to sway anr 1 rock as if in the grip of some fiend of terror, when high above the murmur rose the voice of Martini, the marksman. "The man, woman, or child who moves without the word from me," he shouted, "I shoot, so htflp me, God!" By a miracle the wave of panic, already tottering on the brink of a mighty downrush, was stayed. It was a time when men look instinctively for leadership, and they found it in that gaunt, red-shirted figure, standing motionless with his rifle at his shoulder. He dominated, the whole scene. There was not a soul in the audience but felt the hypnotic influence of that staring muzzle, the terrible earnestness of those few incisive words. "There is time for everyone to leave the building," he went on, "if everyone leaves in turn. Front row, right, dress circle !" "Front row, right, stalls!" came from one girl as she steed by his side, rifle at shoulder. . t "Front row, right, pit," came the other girl. The three rows of people indicated filed obediently out. The smoke poured in denser volumes on to the stage. One after the other the orders were rapped out Avith military precision. A tall men in the third row of the stalls followed two pale-faced children, scowling at the indiignit forced upon him, but obedient. The flaxen-haired youth attempted a joke when his turn carte, but failed miserably. Angry red flames made their appearance from the back of the stage, throwing the three motionless figures into strong relief. From without came the shriek of the syrens as the fire-engines arrived on the scene. The atmosphere became almost suffocating, and what remained of the audience was hidden from the three marksmen. But the sharp metallic orders went on, and the people obeyed them, knowing that in obedience only there was safety. Those in the last three rows were coughing and gasping for breath, but they kept their places. The stage had become an inferno of flame and smoke. One row only was left in each parte of the house, when there came a crash, as a great beam fell upon the stage, and the water from the fire-engine poured in. Outside there was a sea of white faces, anxious cries of those who had been separated, the blowing of firemen's whistles, and the hiss of water. As the great beam fell and the flames shot up to the sky, an awed murmur ran through the crowd. "Is everyone out?" The question went from mouth to mouth. From the three street entrances the last three rows filed out in perfect order, still obedient to the influence of that commanding figure. A ghastly panic had been averted, a stupendous loss of life avoided. There was only three victims to the fire-fiend.

The falling beam had done its work and the three Martinis had performed their last turn.