music like that I'd buy a season ticket.

When the prima donna had cut it off, with her voice way up in the flies
somewhere, and the house had rose to her, as the bleachers do when one
of the Giants knocks a three bagger, the Lady Brigandess was still
sittin' there, waitin' for more.

Her trance didn't last long, though. She just cast one eye around the
boxes, where the folks were splittin' gloves and wavin' fans and
yellin' "Bravo! Bravo!" so that you'd 'a-thought somebody'd carried Ohio
by a big majority, and then she takes a notion to get into the game
herself.

Shuckin' that high priced opera cloak she jumps up, drops one hand on
her hip, holds the other up to her lips and peels off a kind of
whoop-e-e-e yodel that shakes the skylight. Talk about your cornet bugle
calls! That little ventriloquist pass of hers had 'em stung to a
whisper. It cut through all that patter and screech like a siren whistle
splittin' a fish horn serenade, and it was as clear as the ring of
silver sleigh bells on a frosty night.

After that it was all up to her. The other folks quit and turned to see
who had done it. Two or three thousand pairs of double barrelled opera
glasses were pointed our way. The folks behind 'em found something worth
lookin' at, too. Our Brigandess wasn't in disguise any more. She stood
up there at the box rail, straight as a Gibson girl, her black hair
hangin' in two thick braids below her waist, the gold hoops in her ears
all ajiggle, her little fringed jacket risin' and fallin', and her black
eyes snappin' like a pair of burning trolley fuses. Well, say, if she
wa'n't a pastelle I never saw one! I guess the star singer thought so,
too. She'd just smiled and nodded at the others, but she blew a kiss up
to our lady before she left.

I don't know just what would have happened next if someone hadn't shown
up at the back of the box and asked for the Boss. It was the Italian
consul that we'd been to see earlier in the day.

"Where'd you find her?" says he.

"Meanin' who?" says the Boss.

"Why, her highness the Princess Padova."

"Beg pardon," says the Boss, "but if you mean the young lady there,
you're wrong. She's the daughter of a poor but honest brigand chief, and
she's just come from Tuscany to discover New York."

"She's the Princess Padova or I'm a Turk," says the Consul. "Ask her to
step back here a moment."

It sounded like a pipe dream, all right. Who ever saw a princess rigged
out for the tambour