“Arrah, Patsy, mind the baby! Arrah, Patsy, mind the child! Wrap him in an overcoat, he’s surely going wild! Arrah, Patsy, mind the baby! just you mind the child awhile! He’ll kick and bite and cry all night! Arrah, Patsy, mind the child!” “Rippin’! Oh, rippin’!” said Dick Four. “Only we shan’t have any piano on the night. We must work it with the banjoes--play an’ dance at the same time. You try, Tertius.” The Emperor pushed aside his pea-green sleeves of state, and followed Dick Four on a heavy nickel-plated banjo. “Yes, but I’m dead all this time. Bung in the middle of the stage, too,” said Abanazar. “Oh, that’s Beetle’s biznai,” said Dick Four. “Vamp it up, Beetle. Don’t keep us waiting all night. You’ve got to get Pussy out of the light somehow, and bring us all in dancin’ at the end.” “All right. You two play it again,” said Beetle, who, in a gray skirt and a wig of chestnut sausage-curls, set slantwise above a pair of spectacles mended with an old boot-lace, represented the Widow Twankay. He waved one leg in time to the hammered refrain, and the banjoes grew louder. “Um! Ah! Er--‘Aladdin now has won his wife,’” he sang, and Dick Four repeated it. “‘Your Emperor is appeased.’” Tertius flung out his chest as he delivered his line. “Now jump up, Pussy! Say, ‘I think I’d better come to life!’ Then we all take hands and come forward: ‘We hope you’ve all been pleased.’ _Twiggez-vous_?” “_Nous twiggons_. Good enough. What’s the chorus for the final ballet? It’s four kicks and a turn,” said Dick Four. “Oh! Er! John Short will ring the curtain down. And ring the prompter’s bell; We hope you know before you go That we all wish you well.” “Rippin’! Rippin’! Now for the Widow’s scene with the Princess. Hurry up, Turkey.” McTurk, in a violet silk skirt and a coquettish blue turban, slouched forward as one thoroughly ashamed of himself. The Slave of the Lamp climbed down from the piano, and dispassionately kicked him. “Play up, Turkey,” he said; “this is serious.” But there fell on the door the knock of authority. It happened to be King, in gown and mortar-board, enjoying a Saturday evening prowl before dinner. “Locked doors! Locked doors!” he snapped with a scowl. “What’s the meaning of this; and what, may I ask, is the intention of this--this epicene attire?” “Pantomime, sir. The Head gave us leave,” said Abanazar, as the only member of the Sixth concerned. Dick Four stood firm in the confidence born of well-fitting tights, but Beetle strove to efface himself behind the piano. A gray princess-skirt borrowed from a day-boy’s mother and a spotted cotton bodice unsystematically padded with imposition-paper make one ridiculous. And in other regards Beetle had a bad conscience.