f the defeated yielding to success.

Before the applause had died, two more girls were led forward, and the
storm of shouts and yells arose again. One of the candidates was dressed
in pink, with a shiny black belt round her waist, a huge pink bow in her
fluffy, light hair, and white stockings very visible. When the Master
shouted her name, she cocked her head on one side, giggled, and writhed
her shoulders. Cries of "Saucy!" "Mabel!" "Ain't I a nice little girl?"
and "There's a little bit of all right!" saluted her, and the approval
was beyond question. He pointed to the other, and a rage of execration
burst forth, "O Ginger!" "Ain't she got a cheek?" "Lock her up for the
night!" "Oh, you giddy old thing!" were the chief cries that Mr.
Clarkson could distinguish in the general howling. A band of youths
behind him began singing, "Tell me the old, old story." In the gallery
they sang "Sit down, sit down," to the tune of the Westminster chimes.
Half the theatre joined in one song, half in the other, and the singing
ended in cat-calls, whistles, and shrieks of mockery. The red-haired
girl stood pale and motionless, her eyes fixed on some point of vacancy
beyond the yelling crowd.

"Terribly painful position for a woman!" said Mr. Clarkson.

"Ill-advised," said the big man, shaking his head; "very ill-advised."

"Good lesson for her," remarked Albert. "These shows teach the ugly ones
to know their place. Improve the breed these shows do--same as
'orse-racing." And having shouted "Ginger!" again, he added, "Bandy!"

"Ain't it wicked for a woman to have such an imperence?" cried Albert's
girl, joining in the yell as the candidate was marched off to the side
of the losers.

"Isn't this all a little personal?" Mr. Clarkson protested; "a
trifle--what should I say?--Oriental, perhaps?"

"She don't know how hidjus she is," the big man explained. "No female
don't."

"Nor no man neither, I should 'ope!" said Albert's girl, and wriggling
out of the encircling arm, she suddenly sprang up, put her hat straight,
and forced her way towards the stage.

"Now the fat's on!" observed the big man, with a foreboding sigh.

"You may pull her 'ead off," Albert answered resignedly. "There ain't no
'oldin' of her."

"Dangerous, very dangerous!" whispered the big man to Mr. Clarkson. "A
terror is Albert when she's beat! Bloodshed frequent outside! She's
always beat--always starts, and always beat."

"Celtic, I suppose," Mr. Clarkson ob