The theatres of Buenos Aires begin at 9 p.m., and the Devil’s Mission opens at the same time. I followed some of his congregation to the “Royal Theatre” and paid $1.50 gold to stand up in the back part of the house behind a rail and look at some silly French films. They were followed by the real entertainment which was opened by an American chorus whose flat voices would have been high-priced at 25 cents admission. I endured it in shameful silence, but the audience was “cynical,” and by barks and obscene onomatopoeic sounds, instead of hisses, showed its dissatisfaction. So far, this was but a prelude to the interlude intermission when everybody adjourned to an upper and lower foyer where the band played, the men and women marched and countermarched, flirted, paired off and sat at the tables eating and drinking. The “ladies” were especially friendly to me, alone and idly looking on. They spotted me as a gringo, and in French, German and Spanish, Italian and English said “Good evening,” asking me if I would not have a drink or go out for a little walk. One coveted my scarab pin, thinking it would make a nice breast-pin. I compromised with her on an American flag which she proudly bore aloft. Another as unmindful of my calling as I was of not standing “in the way of the ungodly,” chucked me under the chin and said, “Hello, kiddo, how’s New York?” This was the life or death I didn’t care to cultivate. I told them I had no time or money to waste and that my wife was waiting for me to help pack the trunk, since we were to sail in the morning. I returned to my standing place to get my money’s worth of torture. It was over at twelve, when I left. Hurrying to the hotel, I met the hotel runner. He asked where I had been. “Everywhere,” I said, and told him. He laughingly replied I was in the “wickedest city” in the world and hadn’t seen anything. Then he proceeded to introduce me to the Red Lamp district across the river, where the sailors are searched and relieved of their arms; where the arms of the frail denizens relieve them of their money by charging dollars for dime drinks; where blistering curses and kisses echo through the darkened rooms; and where colored movies of human and animal life are shown that would make the pornographic pictures of Paris and Havana look like a Pilgrim’s Progress film. Here are the painted women whose keen eyes stab, whose vampire lips suck life blood, whose tresses are winding-sheets, and bodies graves in which honor and purity are buried. Happier for them had they dressed in a shroud, clasped hands with a leper and kissed a red-hot stove than to have dressed, drunk and debauched as they did. These midnight marauders seemed to think the stars were lit to lead them on from shame to shame, while the truth is they sadly look down on souls whose beating pulses live for a pleasure that murders time, health, wealth, character and reputation.