Clear the way for the Calf of Gold! In his pomp and pride adore him; East or West, in heat or cold, Weak and strong must bow before him! Wisest men do homage mute To the image of the brute.... Steindal, posturing on the chair in absurd caricature of a Plançon or Edouard de Reszke, was fairly launched into the opening strofa before Hooper or I quite realized what was happening. Some ladies at neighboring tables shrank from us with alarm. People farther away rose and gazed at us wide-eyed. A sharp-witted genius, scenting some mischief, shouted “Bravo!” and the band, thinking an artistic joke was in train, kept up the accompaniment. Jules and an under-manager hurried towards us, but, seeing that the diners were, if anything, inclined to applaud, they resolved to defer their appeal for orderly behavior on Steindal’s part until he made an end. He sang both verses admirably, the band helping in the chorus, and, with the final wild phrase: Tuo ministro è Belzebù, a perfect hurricane of encouraging cries and rattling of cutlery came from all sides. Steindal bowed in the approved style, and descended from his rostrum. He was not disturbed in the least. Obviously, Karl held him in a state of complete aphanasia, and this magnate of a Rand which he had never seen had not the remotest notion that he was making a supreme ass of himself. Nor was it altogether patent that others took that severe view. Certainly, the stock-broker regarded him with a pained curiosity, but most of those present seemed to look upon the escapade as the light-hearted ebullience of a foreigner. Our waiters brought some variety of meat, goodness knows what, and Steindal tackled it with keen zest, first sluicing his strained vocal cords with more wine. The orchestra swung off into a pleasing waltz. Hooper and I, though disconcerted by the covert attention our party attracted, were beginning to take an intelligent interest in the dinner when Karl called on his medium for another “turn.” “In your vanished youth, Steindal,” he hissed, “you were a circus acrobat. Before you gorge too much give us a contortion or two!” Instantly the unhappy Wilhelm sprang upright again. He grabbed his chair, set it apart from the table with a professional bang on the floor, and forthwith stood on his head and hands. His coat and the white napkin flapped down over his face, coins rattled from his pockets, and his obese figure looked exceedingly comical as he poised himself feet upwards and slowly turned, so that all might see and admire. After a pause, he bounced back to the floor, but only to grasp the chair in a new way and extend himself horizontally, resting on his hands.