"Dolt! Do I look the sort of person who is content with a box on the ceiling? Go back to your post, sir--I'll find the box myself--Heaven send you wisdom--go back, some one might sneak in while you are away, and it would just serve you right." The little man slunk back half dazed, glad to escape from this overwhelming personality, and in a few seconds Manasseh stalked into the empty box, followed by Yankelé, whose mouth was a grin and whose eye a twinkle. As the Spaniard took his seat there was a slight outburst of clapping and stamping from a house impatient for the end of the _entr'acte_. Manasseh craned his head over the box to see the house, which in turn craned to see him, glad of any diversion, and some people, imagining the applause had reference to the new-comer, whose head appeared to be that of a foreigner of distinction, joined in it. The contagion spread, and in a minute Manasseh was the cynosure of all eyes and the unmistakable recipient of an "ovation." He bowed twice or thrice in unruffled dignity. [Illustration: "HE BOWED."] There were some who recognised him, but they joined in the reception with wondering amusement. Not a few, indeed, of the audience were Jews, for Goodman's Fields was the Ghetto Theatre, and the Sabbath was not a sufficient deterrent to a lax generation. The audiences--mainly German and Poles--came to the little unfashionable playhouse as one happy family. Distinctions of rank were trivial, and gallery held converse with circle, and pit collogued with box. Supper parties were held on the benches. In a box that gave on the pit a portly Jewess sat stiffly, arrayed in the very pink of fashion, in a spangled robe of India muslin, with a diamond necklace and crescent, her head crowned by terraces of curls and flowers. "Betsy!" called up a jovial feminine voice from the pit, when the applause had subsided. "Betsy" did not move, but her cheeks grew hot and red. She had got on in the world, and did not care to recognise her old crony. "Betsy!" iterated the well-meaning woman. "By your life and mine, you must taste a piece of my fried fish." And she held up a slice of cold plaice, beautifully browned. Betsy drew back, striving unsuccessfully to look unconscious. To her relief the curtain rose, and _The Castle Spectre_ walked. Yankelé, who had scarcely seen anything but private theatricals, representing the discomfiture of the wicked Haman and the triumph of Queen Esther (a _rôle_ he had once played himself, in his mother's old clothes), was delighted with the thrills and terrors of the ghostly melodrama. It was not till the conclusion of the second act that the emotion the beautiful but injured heroine cost him welled over again into matrimonial speech. "Ve vind up de night glorious," he said. "I am glad you like it. It is certainly an enjoyable performance," Manasseh answered with stately satisfaction. "Your daughter, Deborah," Yankelé ventured timidly, "do she ever go to de play?"