"And why does he say no more? Has he finished his turn? Is that all he does? Are his eight hundred and seventy-five pounds a week paid him for saying, 'Ladies and Gentlemen'? "No! "He would say more. He has more to say. This is only the beginning. This tall, handsome man has all his music still within him. "Why, then, does he say no more? Why does he say 'Ladies and Gentlemen,' but no more? No more. Only that. No more. Nothing more. No more. "Because from the stalls a solid, vast, crushing 'Boo!' is hurled at him. From the Russians in the stalls comes this vast, crushing 'Boo!' It is for this that they have been waiting. It is for this that they have been waiting so tensely. For this. They have been waiting for this colossal 'Boo!' "The General retreats a step. He is amazed. Startled. Perhaps frightened. He waves his hands. "From gallery and pit comes a hideous whistling and howling. The noise of wild beasts. The noise of exploding boilers. The noise of a music-hall audience giving a performer the bird. "Everyone is standing on his feet. Some on mine. Everyone is shouting. This vast audience is shouting. "Words begin to emerge from the babel. "'Get offski! Rotten turnovitch!' These bearded Russians, these stern critics, shout, 'Rotten turnovitch!' "Fire shoots from the eyes of the German. This strong man's eyes. "'Get offski! Swankietoff! Rotten turnovitch!' "The fury of this audience is terrible. This audience. This last court of appeal. This audience in its fury is terrible. "What will happen? The German stands his ground. This man of blood and iron stands his ground. He means to go on. This strong man. He means to go on if it snows. "The audience is pulling up the benches. A tomato shatters itself on the Prince's right eye. An over-ripe tomato. "'Get offski!' Three eggs and a cat sail through the air. Falling short, they drop on to the orchestra. These eggs! This cat! They fall on the conductor and the second trombone. They fall like the gentle dew from Heaven upon the place beneath. That cat! Those eggs! "AA! At last the stage-manager--keen, alert, resourceful--saves the situation. This man. This stage-manager. This man with the big brain. Slowly, inevitably, the fireproof curtain falls. It is half-way down. It is down. Before it, the audience. The audience. Behind it, the Prince. The Prince. That general. That man of iron. That performer who has just got the bird. "The Russian National Anthem rings through the hall. Thunderous! Triumphant! The Russian National Anthem. A paean of joy. "The menials reappear. Those calm, passionless menials. They remove the number fifteen. They insert the number sixteen. They are like Destiny--Pitiless, Unmoved, Purposeful, Silent. Those menials. "A crash from the orchestra. Turn number sixteen has begun...." Chapter 8 THE MEETING AT THE SCOTCH STORES