orelegs, and slunk, with the
rest, into the corner. The Signore turned and bowed. It was the little
riding-whip they feared, for they had never gauged its sting. Not the
heavy iron bar within reach of his hand, whose force they knew. The vast
audience breathed easier.

"An ugly lot," I said, turning to our friend the manager, who had taken
his seat beside me.

"Yes," he mused, peering at the stage with his keen gray eyes; "green
stock, but a swell act, eh? Wait for the grand finale. I've got a
girl here who comes on and does art poses among the lions; she's a
dream--French, too!"

A girl of perhaps twenty, enveloped in a bath gown, now appeared at the
wings. The next instant the huge theater became dark, and she stood in
full fleshings, in the center of the cage, brilliant in the rays of a
powerful limelight, while the lions circled about her at the command of
the trainer.

"Ain't she a peach?" said the manager, enthusiastically.

"Yes," said I, "she is. Has she been in the cages long?" I asked.

[Illustration: (portrait of woman)]

"No, she never worked with the cats before," he said; "she's new to the
show business; she said her folks live in Nantes. She worked here in a
chocolate factory until she saw my 'ad' last week and joined my show. We
gave her a rehearsal Monday and we put her on the bill next night. She's
a good looker with plenty of grit, and is a winner with the bunch in
front."

"How did you get her to take the job?" I said.

"Well," he replied, "she balked at the act at first, but I showed her
two violet notes from a couple of swell fairies who wanted the job, and
after that she signed for six weeks."

"Who wrote the notes?" I said, queryingly.

"I wrote 'em!" he exclaimed dryly, and he bit the corner of his stubby
mustache and smiled. "This is the last act in the olio, so you will have
to excuse me. So long!" and he disappeared in the gloom.

* * * * *

There are streets and boulevards in the Quarter, sections of which are
alive with the passing throng and the traffic of carts and omnibuses.
Then one will come to a long stretch of massive buildings, public
institutions, silent as convents--their interminable walls flanking
garden or court.

The Boulevard St. Germain is just such a highway until it crosses the
Boulevard St. Michel--the liveliest roadway of the Quarter. Then it
seems to become suddenly inoculated with its bustle and life, and from
there on is crowd