leon at St.
Helena could not have folded his arms more dramatically. After some
grunting--I fear we were upsetting the principles of the
Constitution--he consented to give us one chair, receiving in return a
Burma cheroot which I have every reason to believe blew his little head
off. A pit containing fifty rows of fifty people and a bonding layer of
babies, with a gallery which might have held twelve hundred, made up the
house. The building was as delicate a piece of cabinet work as any of
the houses; roof, floor, beams, props, verandahs, and partitions were of
naked wood, and every other person in the house was smoking a tiny pipe
and knocking out the ashes every two minutes. Then I wished to fly;
death by the _auto da fe_ not being anywhere paid for in the tour; but
there was no escape by the one little door where pickled fish was being
sold between the acts.

"Yes, it's not exactly safe," said the Professor, as the matches winked
and sputtered all round and below. "But if that curtain catches that
naked light on the stage, or you see this matchwood gallery begin to
blaze, I'll kick out the back of the refreshment buffet, and we can walk
away."

With this warm comfort the drama began. The green curtain dropped from
above and was whisked away, and three gentlemen and a lady opened the
ball by a dialogue conducted in tones between a "burble" and a falsetto
whisper. If you wish to know their costumes, look at the nearest
Japanese fan. Real Japs of course are like men and women, but stage Japs
in their stiff brocades are line for line as Japs are drawn. When the
four sat down, a little boy ran among them and settled their draperies,
pulling out a sash bow here, displaying a skirt-fold there. The costumes
were as gorgeous as the plot was incomprehensible. But we will call the
play "_The Thunder Cat_, or _Harlequin Bag o' Bones and the Amazing Old
Woman_, or _The Mammoth Radish_, or _The Superfluous Badger and the
Swinging Lights_."

A two-sworded man in the black and gold brocade rose up and imitated the
gait of an obscure actor called Henry Irving, whereat, not knowing that
he was serious, I cackled aloud till the Japanese policeman looked at me
austerely. Then the two-sworded man wooed the Japanese-fan lady, the
other characters commenting on his proceedings like a Greek chorus till
something--perhaps a misplaced accent--provoked trouble, and the
two-sworded man and a vermilion splendour enjoyed a Vincent Crummles
fi