SECRET OF DRURY LANE.

Rangitikei Advocate and Manawatu Argus, Volume XXII, Issue 8960, 28 October 1907, Page 4

SECRET OF DRURY LANE.

The secret of Drury Lane is out at last, says the London Daily Mail or August 30th. It was guarded more jealously, than the tomb of Mahomet until yesterday, when the members of thetcompany were suddenly called ; upon the stage from the rehearsal of ; the autumn drama. They *? nn< ; i themselves standing on the deck ot the transport Beachy Head. Above them were officers on the bridge, while higher up on the navigating bridge the captain was impatiently waiting. The twinkling j lights of Portsmouth harbour lay | across the rippling water. Up the J gangway poured company after com- i pany of troops, destined for foreign service—a regiment for Alexandria, and details for Malta and Gibraltar. Men were told off to quarters, boats were ordered away from the side, the last pathetic good-byes were said, the gangway was cleared, a _deep, resounding hoot came from the.great foghorn, and then the huge troopship 1 dropped majestically down the harbour and headed for the open sea. One could hear the throb of the engine, one could see the shore glide by, the water caught the glint of the moonlight, the shore line faded till one could almost feel the heave of the deep sea under the troopship's

keel. ~ How Mr Arthur Oollms has done it only Mr Arthur Oollins knows; but all those'who were privileged to seo the first scenic rehearsal of tins one great scene yesterday came away convinced that Drury Lane had excelled itself. Not one, however, was prepared for what he saw follow the first development of this remarkable pictnre. It must be explained that the authors have not drawn upon their imagination, .but have strictly relied upon current events for their incidents. A young officer, for reasons of his own, suddenly flung up his commission without *a moment’s warning, disappeared, and enlisted as a private soldier in another regiment. This is what the Drury Lane hero finds himself compelled to do, and one sees him march on board the ship as an ordinary infantry private. He has escaped from certain compromising surroundings, the exact nature of which he does not understand. Anxiously he watches the shore lights sinking one by one, and at last, when they vanish in the sea fog that thickly envelops the ship, he feels that he is a free man. The thought has barely taken words upon his lips when there comes a call from the bridge. An officer is wanted. A Marconi message has followed the ship from the shore. The men are paraded, and in a few minutes the colonel picks out the hero and makes him declare his identity. But the colonel is an old officer and very proud of his cloth. Under his Meath he whispes, “You. are a gentleman, remember that. If you have got any pluck, finish it! Snatch the revolver from my belt—l shan’t stop you—or go over the side and drown. Don’t be a coward — finish it!” Aghast, the hero asks what he means. “I mean,” says the colonel, “that if you stay on board this ship, you will be under arrest for murder. ’ ’• “Heaven help me!” exclaims the hero, btft at that very instant there is a crash like that of an earthquake. Speeding blindfold through the fog, the troopship has struck an unseen rock. So sudden is the catasropho that for a moment discipline vanishes. Forgetting the need of the women and children, men rush, ter-ror-stricken, for the boats. Their officers are unable to restrain them, till the hero, with a flash of inspiration, suddenly tears the case off the colours, and, waving the flag of the regiment in the air, calls on the soldiers to rally. “If you can’t live like men, you can die like men,” he shouts. Courage and duty prevail. As if by magic, order is restored. Rigid as statues, the men come to attention round the colours. The women and children are got quickly away, but the great troopship is taking a list by the head. The huge funnels careen forward ; the dock cracks and, splinters; the steamer’s back breaks; the dull roar of the bursting boilers is heard; steam pours from- every crevice; yet the men stand, knowing that they are waiting there for death—the only way they can ensure their women life. Lower the great ship goes, nearer and nearer to the water’s edge, but the men do not flinch. The colours fly, the officers salute. Over the din and the roar the bugler can be heard blowing'tho strange and melancholy Last Post, the weird last call that is sounded over the graves of the dead at a military funeral. As the last three wail, iug notes echo over the fog-bound sea, the transport sinks. And thus Drury Lane realises the story of the sinking of the Birkenhead —the story that is regarded as sucli a perfect example of courage and duty that it is inscribed in letters of gold upon the walls of every messroum in Ger- | many by the especial order of the < Emperor William.