till after the all too brief intermission for rest and
recuperation that the newly-formed team of Marlowe and Hignett was
scheduled to appear. Previous to this there had been dark deeds done in
the quiet saloon. The lecturer on deep-sea fish had fulfilled his threat
and spoken at great length on a subject which, treated by a master of
oratory, would have palled on the audience after ten or fifteen minutes;
and at the end of fifteen minutes this speaker had only just got past
the haddocks and was feeling his way tentatively through the shrimps.
"The Rosary" had been sung and there was an uneasy doubt as to whether
it was not going to be sung again after the interval--the latest rumour
being that the second of the rival lady singers had proved adamant to
all appeals and intended to fight the thing out on the lines she had
originally chosen if they put her in irons.

A young man had recited "Gunga Din" and, wilfully misinterpreting the
gratitude of the audience that it was over for a desire for more, had
followed it with "Fuzzy-Wuzzy." His sister--these things run in
families--had sung "My Little Gray Home in the West"--rather sombrely,
for she had wanted to sing "The Rosary," and, with the same obtuseness
which characterised her brother, had come back and rendered plantation
songs. The audience was now examining its programmes in the interval of
silence in order to ascertain the duration of the sentence still
remaining unexpired.

It was shocked to read the following:--

7. A Little Imitation......S. Marlowe.

All over the saloon you could see fair women and brave men wilting in
their seats. Imitation...! The word, as Keats would have said, was like
a knell! Many of these people were old travellers and their minds went
back wincingly, as one recalls forgotten wounds, to occasions when
performers at ships' concerts had imitated whole strings of Dickens'
characters or, with the assistance of a few hats and a little false
hair, had endeavoured to portray Napoleon, Bismarck, Shakespeare, and
other of the famous dead. In this printed line on the programme there
was nothing to indicate the nature or scope of the imitation which this
S. Marlowe proposed to inflict upon them. They could only sit and wait
and hope that it would be short.

There was a sinking of hearts as Eustace Hignett moved down the room and
took his place at the piano. A pianist! This argued more singing. The
more pessimistic began to fear that t