“An’ here,” Simpson cried, “we have the famous Hindoo snake-charmer. A pure Brahma--look at his feet. This man, ladies an’ gen’lemen, lives on dope! He wears no socks. Why? Why does he wear no socks? _Be_-cause he swapped them this mornin’ fer a quart o’ knockout drops! While ’n under th’ influence o’ that noxious drug, he’ll swally anythin’--live fire, nails, carpet tacks, jollies er anythin’ else yuh throw into him. He--” “Are yuh goin’ to gi’ me them boots?” “Shine” growled. The crowd heard him and drew in closer, scenting trouble. Simpson heard him and veered off. “An’ next we have three ladies from th’ Imperial Harem o’ Madagascar--” “Are yuh goin’ to gi’ me them boots?” Simpson raised his voice to drown the laughter. “Three o’ the faires’ flowers in Eastern womanhood! On th’ inside we have no less ’n twenty-seven--” “He’s a liar!” “Shine” shouted to the crowd. “He’s a liar. He’s got nuthin’ at all inside. He’s a liar an’ a fakir. He promised me a pair o’ boots! He’s a liar an’ a fakir! He’s--” Simpson leaped on him. The three frightened Beauties jumped screaming into the arms of the crowd. In another minute the whole front of the “Alhambra” was shaking with the uproar of a riot. [Illustration: _The blaze, caught at close range, seemed to snuff out_ See page 90] “Shine” was a Bowery fighter. He turned in Simpson’s clutch and threw him, and while the “boosters” were forcing their way to the platform to aid their employer, he pounded Simpson in a fury. It was impossible to separate him from his struggling victim, so they dragged him from the platform, and Simpson with him; and then some of the roughs in the crowd raised a cry of “Fair fight there! Fair fight!” and attacked the boosters. In the midst of it a gang of Coney thieves made a raid on the ticket office, and Mrs. Simpson’s wild yells rose above the tumult in a shrill appeal for help. There followed a free fight and a general scramble for the gate receipts. It lasted until the policeman on that beat called out the reserves to clear the street; and when these turned their attention to the cause of the disorder, a solitary gasoline torch, above the ballyhoo platform, shone on the deserted wreck of the “Alhambra” front. The boosters had made their escape by the back way. “Butts” had deserted his piano, and was sitting in the New England Kitchen greedily inhaling the smoke of a cigarette. The Beauties of the Harem were whispering together in their dressing-room; and one of them had an air of inward apprehension natural to a young woman who had swallowed her chewing gum. Mrs. Simpson was in the back room, bathing her husband’s face. “Shine,” alone in the Hall of Mystic Marvels, dressed in his own trousers and a coat and cap that belonged to “Butts,” received the police with a battered grin.