She stamped along the stage in a cloud of lace and tossing frock; then, seeing that they were still moving and, in the far reaches, struggling, she loosened her heel and suddenly—off went one shoe to the wings, prompt side. Off went the other to the wings, o.p. This bit of business attracted the attention of Charl and Perce and others. They closed in. Now it was heel-and-toe dancing, and suddenly a small hand shot to her knee. Off came a little crimson garter. With an airy turn of her bare and white-powdered arm she sent it spinning into the stalls. “Scramble for it, darlings!” “I’ll—tell—you—how I love you— Down in the Valley.” The wicked little head ogled, now here, now there. They scrambled, and while they scrambled and she danced, she bent to her right knee, and off came a blue garter, and away that went, too. “Share and share alike, old dears.” This time she had the pit as well. “My word. She’s a corker, eh?” “I should say so.” “Quite right, Augustus,” she cried. “There isn’t a fire here, but I’m hot enough to start one. I love my molten lava, but what price Gina?” They chuckled. They cheered. They chi-iked. “Gaw—fancy a kid like that.... If she was a kid of mine I’d learn ’er something.” In the vaudeville phrase, she had got ’em with both hands. The lights died down again. The turmoil was confined to the gallery. A lone chucker-out implored them to observe that everything was all right and “Order, please, for the artiste.” The _Maxixe_ swallowed him up. “Come along, boys!” cried Gina. “Chorus, this time. Now then—one—two—— “‘I’ll ... Meet ... You ... In ... the Valley....’” Very uncertainly and timidly a few at the back of the hall picked it up. They hummed it in the self-conscious voice of the music-hall audience before it is certain that it is not alone. The next few lines were taken with more confidence, and by those in front as well, and the last lines, encouraged by the band and the shrill abandon of Gina, they yelled defiantly, exultingly, with whistles and cheers for the kid. Those standing up were pressed forward as those behind strove to catch her back-chat with stalls and orchestra. “Holler, boys,” she cried, shaking her dusty golden head from side to side. “Holler! All together—tenors—basses—Worthingtons. More you holler the more money I get. And if I don’t take some home to my old man to-night I shall get it where Susie wore the beads! Holler, boys: it’s my benefit! Edison-Bell record!” And they did holler. Away they went in one broad roar. There was no doubt as to whether Gina had fulfilled her promise of holding them. There was no doubt as to whether she had a stage personality. That holler settled it. Gina’s vocation lay in the stress and sacrifice of the vulgar world. “My word, she’s a little goer, eh?” “You’re right. At that age, too! Fast little cat. She wants a spanking. And if she was a kid o’ mine she’d get it.” “How old is she?” “Fourteen, they say.”