ut
of the theater.

The whole of the vast audience was there for enjoyment. Enjoyment was in
the air like a great thrill of electricity. What could be more
magnificent than the huge drop curtain, with its rich landscape and
lightly clothed inhabitants? What could be more exciting than the
entrance, one by one, of the amazingly self-possessed musicians?

The orchestra was tuning up. The conductor appeared to the welcoming
taps of fiddle-bows. One breathless moment he held aloft his baton and
looked round at his attentive company, then altogether the fiddles and
the drums and the flutes and the cornets, the groaning double-bass and
the 'cello and the clarinets and the funny little piccolo and the big
bassoon and the complicated French horns and the trombones and the
triangle (perhaps the best-enjoyed instrument of all) and the stupendous
cymbals started off with the overture of the Christmas pantomime of the
Grand Theater, Islington.

Could it be borne, this enthusiastic overture? Was it not almost too
much for children, this lilting announcement of mirth and beauty? Would
not Jenny presently fall head-foremost into the pit? Would not Alfie be
bound to break the seat by his perpetual leaps into the air? Would not
Edie explode in her anxiety to correct Jenny, devour bull's-eyes and see
more of a mysterious figure that kept peering through a little square
hole in the corner of the proscenium?

The orchestra stopped for a moment. A bell had rung, shrill and pregnant
with great events. Green lights appeared, and red lights: there was
hardly a sound in the house. Was anything the matter?

"They're just ringing up," said Mr. Vergoe.

Slowly the rich landscape and lightly clothed inhabitants vanished into
the roof.

"Oh!" exclaimed Jenny.

"Hush!" whispered Edie.

"My Gosh!" said Alfie.

A weird melody began. Demons leaped maliciously round a caldron. Green
demons and red demons danced with pitchforks. The caldron bubbled and
steamed. There was a crash from the cymbals. A figure sprang from the
caldron, alighting on the board with a loud "ha-ha." Evil deeds were
afoot, and desperate dialogue of good and ill.

The scene changed to a Chinese market-place. There were comic policemen,
comic laundrywomen. There was the Princess Balroubadour in a palanquin
more beautiful than the very best lampshade of the Hagworth Street
parlor. There was the splendidly debonair Aladdin. There was the
excruciatingly funny Widow Twankey