"That's all right, but I'm going to have my own way about my own affairs. Do you understand?" "Better than you think, Sir." "What's that?" "I mean that I understand perfectly." "Well, say what you mean." "Senator," said I, "he is right. I'd better get a room down town. Walking in and out--and I couldn't think of riding--would take up too much of my time, and I expect to be very busy after the season opens." "Well, now, there may be something in that. Yes, Sir, there's a good deal to be attended to. Suit yourself. Perhaps it would be better. Washington, you go on and pay for your diabolical arrangement to keep me awake." The negro bowed and gave me a look, but not of victory--of gratitude. CHAPTER X. MR. PETTICORD. Early the next day I was formally installed as manager of the Bolanyo Opera House. The Senator directed the ceremony, marking long meter with his hat, and by his solemn mien appearing to demand of me a serious and majestic chant, the tune of Old Hundred, to express a deep sense of my responsibility--a mere fancy, of course; but as a matter of fact, he did seem to believe that we ought to make a sentiment of this commonplace and businesslike procedure. But I told him that we would waive the rights of a mysterious incantation and look upon the affair as a commercial transaction. "Yes, of course," he said. "But you know there has always been a sort of mystery about the stage. It holds us to the past, makes us children, afraid of ghosts. It has a peculiar smell; and one thing about it is, that all the people on the stage seem to be foreigners, it makes no difference how well you may have been acquainted with them. I don't know that it's true in all cases. Come to think of it, you don't seem strange to me." "There has always been a prejudice against the stage, in England and America," I replied. "Our race cannot associate art and religion, when, in fact, there's true religion in every phase of art." "Well, now, I don't know about that, Belford. The Pagans worshiped idols and some of their idols were works of art, but there was no true religion in that. But be that as it may, we're going to make a success of this thing." A number of boys, having scented an unusual activity, were hanging about the door, and one of them made bold to ask if there was going to be a show. The Senator answered him. "Yes, there is, my little man, and we'll want you to take around some bills when it comes, next fall. Whose son are you, anyway?" "Mr. Vark's." "Oh, yes, the shoemaker down stairs. Well, run along now."