not come from a bed-fellow, for he had
no bed-fellow. . . . No, it could be no earthly sound.

With a strangled cry he flung a hand upwards, fending off the
horrible darkness. It struck against a board, and at the same
instant his cry was echoed by a sharp scream close beside him.

"Angels and ministers of Gerrace defend us!" The scream sank to a
hoarse whisper and was accompanied by a clank of chains. "Not dead?
You--you are not dead?"

The Major lay back in a cold sweat. "I--I thought I was," he
quavered at length. But at this point his mysterious bed seemed to
sway for a moment beneath him, and he caught his breath. "Where am
I?" he gasped.

"At sea," answered the voice in a hollow tone.

"At sea!" In a sudden spasmodic attempt to sit upright, the Major
almost rolled himself out of his hammock.

"Ay, poor comrade--if you are indeed he whom I saw lifted aboard
unconscious from the tender--'tis the dismal truth."

"Beneath the Orlop's darksome shade
Unknown to Sol's bright ray,
Where no kind chink's assistant aid
Admits the cheerful day.

"I am not, in the practical sense, seaman enough to determine if this
noisome den be the precise part of the ship alluded to by the poet
under the name of Orlop. But the circumstances correspond; and my
stomach informs me that the vessel is in motion."

"The vessel?" echoed the Major, incredulous yet. "_What_ vessel?"

"As if to omit no detail of horror, she is called, I believe, the
_Vesuvius_ bomb. Phoebus, what a name!"

It drummed for some seconds in the Major's ear like an echo.

"Yes, yes . . . the theatre," he murmured.

"The theatre? You were in the theatre? Then you saw _me_?"

"I beg your pardon."

"_Me_--Orlando B. Sturge. Yes, sir, if it be any consolation to you,
know that I, Orlando B. Sturge, of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden,
am your temporary partner in adversity, your co-mate and brother in
exile, with the added indignity of handcuffs; and all by an error
which would be absurd if it weren't so infernally serious."

"There has been some horrible mistake."

"A mistake, sir, for which these caitiffs shall pay dearly,"
Mr. Sturge promised in his deepest tragedy voice.

"A Justice of the Peace!"

"Eh?"

"With a Major's commission!"

"Pardon, I think you must be confusing me with some other person.
Orlando B. Sturge is my name, sir, and familiar--as I may say without
vanity--wherever the Thespian art is ho