There was leaning against one of the "wings" a _naive_ and sprightly piece of feminine beauty, set off in the handsomest and most enticing manner in the world by a well-rounded, gracefully curved pair of pink tights, a white satin surtout and mantelet, plentifully besprent with glittering braid and flashing beads, dainty silk slippers that would have made a Chinese princess weep with envy, and a jaunty white hat to match. She was, of course, to figure as the charming little hero of the evening, if burlesques can be said to have such things as heroes. A doughty old chap, with bristling hair and a porcupine moustache, was standing by talking to little pink tights. He was gotten up like a circus poster in forty colors, with a plentiful array of red on his head and legs and a sort of sickly-looking, rainbow-sandwich built about his body. Red, blue and black streaks straying over his features made it appear as if he might have been assigned the role of an ogre and was accustomed to nightly look around for his fair companion to make a meal of her. I immediately made friends with the comic horror and the little lady in pink tights and learned who and what they were. The latter was (in the play, of course) a nobby young blood known as _Prince Caprice_, personated by Miss Alice Harrison; the red-legged comedian was _King Pin_, the young _Prince's_ funny father and Mr. Louis Harrison was hidden under the remarkable royal disguise. "Well, when are we going to start for the moon?" I asked, good-humoredly. "In a few fleeting moments," was the regal dough-belly's reply. "And are all these folks going into the projectile?" pointing to the crowd of curious characters passing and repassing us. "Not if the court knows herself and she thinks she does," put in the _Prince_, pertly; "only the _King_, _Prof. Microscope_ and myself ride in the cab." _Prof. Microscope_ was a long, scrawny fellow. He was twirling a shaggy moustache and buzzing a handsome and not at all bashful ballet girl at the same time, a short distance away. He was gotten up in a blue-striped, swallow-tail coat, long enough, if the _Professor_ cared about lending or renting it out, to be used for a streamer on the City Hall flagstaff, and short enough in the back to have the waist-buttons constantly challenging the collar to a prize fight or wrestling match. Very tight black pants, a luxuriantly frilled shirt front, fluted cuffs, and white hair allowed to grow to the length worn by Buffalo Bill, completed his outfit. When I was introduced to him, the _Professor_ swore by the bones of Copernicus's grandmother on a volume of patent office reports that he was the sole originator and engineer of the only direct moon line, and he'd bet his boots or eat his hat that it never took more than fifteen minutes to make the trip. "You see," said _King Pin_, "that _Microscope_ is a queer fellow--not a coney man, you mind."