The performance began with Gabrielle's newest violin-piece--a nocturne, executed very correctly but rather nervously. The school applauded vigorously, as they would have applauded anything from the popular Heads of the Upper or Lower School. Ingrid followed, jarringly dramatic in Noyes' _Highwayman_, and was violently appreciated. Clare, not having to face her audience, the piano being sideways to the stage, gave the most successful performance of the three, but took a strictly secondary place in the way of applause. Then, after some whispering and stifled giggling, Joey was pushed forward to the front of the stage, and the curtain drawn back a chink. She spoke through it. "I have to announce that the forthcoming charade is in two syllables and three scenes. The third is the complete word." She withdrew, and all the juniors started thinking aloud of two-syllabled words. They were quite audible on the stage, where Barbara, spectacled and padded as to body, was bending over a steaming fish-kettle, prodding it nervously. "I thought if you _boiled_ germs you killed them," she whispered. "This seems so jolly like the witches in _Macbeth_." "Go on, you silly ass," urged Noreen. "It looks all right anyhow, and you've got the photo-plates for growing the germs on. Come on, Joey, I must tie you up." Joey, attired in a plaid going-out frock belonging to one of the little ones, to represent a kilt, a khaki sports coat, buttoned across, and two box straps for a Sam-Browne belt, was forthwith lashed brutally to a curtain pole, and ordered not to so much as breathe for fear she should move it and it should become plain to the audience that it was leaning against her and she could have walked off with it quite easily. Syb, also rather sketchy as to uniform, but with an unmistakable German cap to make her nationality clear, stood by with a home-made bayonet of stupendous size. Noreen, pillowy as to figure and checked as to blouse, and with her curly, dark hair tightly strained off her forehead, hovered near the Professor, with a large wooden spoon, whether to stir soup or germs seemed doubtful. She waved this spoon impressively, and sent a thrilling whisper to the side of "Draw the curtains." The curtains jerked back and after a pause to allow of sufficient thrill upon the part of the audience, Noreen inquired sepulchrally: "Mein fater, _is_ the mixture slab and strong?" "As strong as thy soup on Sundays, my daughter," was the reply. "As strong as the accursed British Army thinks it is----" "And proves it is," remarked the dauntless captive at the curtain pole, and was promptly prodded with the bayonet to induce a respectful silence. [Illustration: "MEIN FATER, IS THE MIXTURE SLAB AND STRONG?"]