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That had to be very tiring. But the gin, or whatever it was, that Uncle George had been sampling, would not help. And Fancy knew from experience that Cooke might be doing his part perfectly, even when under the influence, and then, very suddenly snap and begin to harangue the audience in the lewdest of language. Such conduct could be very dangerous with a crowd like this.
    Though her first scene was her big one and she would not need to appear again for some time, Fancy continued to wait in the wings, watching. The second act had barely begun when from one of the boxes came the voice of a man. The crowd hushed to listen. Fancy recognized the man as a lawyer, one of the lawyer kind, as Henry would say. He launched into a great tirade, alternating abuse of Kemble and Siddons with allusions to Catalani and others. The British stage should not be contaminated by Italian depravity and French duplicity, he said.
    Fancy could hardly believe her ears. Surely the rioters could not blame a performer for seeking the best salary possible. Other placards were hoisted.
    MOUNTAINS AND DICKENS, NO CATS NO KITTENS.
    Placards and banners hung everywhere over the boxes. One sign announced that together the Kembles and Madame Catalani would that season earn 25,575 pounds. Certainly, thought Fancy, that was an awful lot. But Kemble and Mrs. Siddons were greats; they had been many years in the theater. And everyone knew that Madame Catalani, great singer that she was, was all the rage in London.
    Fancy had not noticed any change in the level of noise from the audience and orange peels, nut shells, apple cores, and other such refuse that had been hitting the stage from time to time, when suddenly Cooke whirled and faced the audience.
    Fancy caught her breath. It had happened! Something had precipitated it and Uncle George had cast aside his role and was going to give his tormentors a dressing down. He advanced right to the edge of the stage, and, as Fancy watched, his shoulders went back and he raised his fist. The clamor in the pit grew louder and more paper and orange peels came sailing through the air.
    And then Fancy saw what Cooke, intent on a specific part of the audience, did not. A band of ruffians was advancing and had almost reached the orchestra. As they pushed aside the musicians, Fancy flew onto the stage. Desperately she pulled at the irate Cooke who was thundering out tremendous lewd oaths and threatening the audience with every known obscenity.
    “Uncle George,” she cried. “Please!” But her words could not be heard over the tumult, and then, just as the rioters reached the stage, Cooke turned and pushed away what he apparently thought was another rioter.
    Fancy, knocked from her feet by the force of his blow, saw the expression of chagrin on his face as he recognized what he had done. And then the terror hit her, for she fell into the arms of the rioters, who, shouting loudly, began to bear her back into the pit.
    Fancy fought her panic. These were dangerous men, highly wrought up, who thought it a great joke to pass her struggling body back and forth high in the air above their heads. And, suspended as she was, to struggle was only to increase her danger.
    She was losing her battle with panic, however, for if they decided to continue on out of the theater she could expect little mercy at the hands of such men. Suddenly the cries and shouts changed their tone. The rioters beneath her began to break and run. Those in front stopped suddenly as though facing an obstacle. For a moment those who held Fancy aloft hesitated. As the room slowed its whirling she had a glimpse of a dark scarred face and a laughing fair one. And suddenly the ground came up to meet her. She felt her head strike something hard and then there was nothing but darkness.
    Slowly Fancy fought her way up out of the darkness. It was comfortable there, cool and safe. She did not want to leave it. But insistently something kept pulling her back to consciousness.