The Widow Larken’s uncompromising expression instantly melted, but she did not smile – she grinned. Bobby knew precisely the cause of that amused expression, but if he had needed an interpreter, he had one at his elbow in the person of Biff Bates, who looked up at him with a reflection of the same grin.

“They’re all next to you, Bobby,” he observed. “The whole town knows that you’re the real village goat.”

The Widow Larken did not answer Bobby directly. She called back to a blue-overall-clad porter at the end of the lobby:

“Open the dining-room doors, Michael.”

Signorina Caravaggio immediately said a few guttural words in German to Professor Frühlingsvogel, a few limpid words in Italian to Signor Ricardo a few crisp words in French to Madame Villenauve, a nervous but rather attractive little woman with piercing black eyes. The singers of other languages did not wait to be informed; they joined the general stampede toward the ravishing paradise of midday breakfast, and as the last of them vacated the lobby, the principals no whit behind the humble members of the chorus in crowding and jamming through that doorway, Bobby breathed a sigh of relief. Only the Signorina was left to him, and Bobby hesitated just a moment as it occurred to him that, perhaps, a more personal entertainment was expected by this eminent songstress. Biff Bates, however, relieved him of his dilemma.

“While you’re gone down to see the boys at the Idlers’ Club,” said Biff, “I’m going to take Miss Carry – Miss – Miss – ”

“Caravaggio,” interrupted the Signorina with a repetition of a laugh which had convinced Bobby that, after all, she might be a singer, though her speaking voice gave no trace of it.

“Carrie for mine,” insisted Biff with a confident grin. “I’m going to take Miss Carrie out to lunch some place where they don’t serve prunes. I guess the Hotel Spender will do for us.”

Bobby surveyed Biff with an indulgent smile.

“Thanks,” said he. “That will give me time to see what I can do.”

“You take my advice, Mr. Burnit,” earnestly interposed the Signorina. “Don’t bother with your friends. Go and see the manager of the Orpheum and ask him about that open date. Ask him if he thinks it wouldn’t be a good investment for you to back us.”

Biff, the conservative; Biff, whose vote was invariably for the negative on any proposition involving an investment of Bobby’s funds, unexpectedly added his weight for the affirmative.

“It’s a good stunt, Bobby. Go to it,” he counseled, and the Caravaggio smiled down at him.

Again Bobby laughed.

“All right, Biff,” said he. “I’ll hunt up the manager of the Orpheum right away.”

In his machine he conveyed Biff and the prima donna to the Hotel Spender, and then drove to the Orpheum.

CHAPTER XIX
WITH THE RELUCTANT CONSENT OF AGNES, BOBBY BECOMES A PATRON OF MUSIC

The manager of the Orpheum was a strange evolution. He was a man who had spent a lifetime in the show business, running first a concert hall that “broke into the papers” every Sunday morning with an account of from two to seven fights the night before, then an equally disreputable “burlesque” house, the broad attractions of which appealed to men and boys only. To this, as he made money, he added the cheapest and most blood-curdling melodrama theater in town, then a “regular” house of the second grade. In his career he had endured two divorce cases of the most unattractive sort, and, among quiet and conventional citizens, was supposed to have horns and a barbed tail that snapped sparks where it struck on the pavement. When he first purchased the Orpheum Theater, the most exclusive playhouse of the city, he began to appear in its lobby every night in a dinner-coat or a dress-suit, silk topper and all, with an almost modest diamond stud in his white shirt-front; and ladies, as they came in, asked in awed whispers of their husbands: “Is that Dan Spratt?” Some few who had occasion to meet him went away gasping: “Why, the man seems really nice!” Others of “the profession,” about whom the public never knew, spoke his name with tears of gratitude.

Mr. Spratt, immersed in troubles of his own, scarcely looked up as Bobby entered, and only grunted in greeting.

“Spratt,” began Bobby, who knew the man quite well through “sporting” events engineered by Biff Bates, “the Neapolitan Grand Opera Company is stranded here, and – ”

“Where are they?” interrupted Spratt eagerly, all his abstraction gone.

“At the Hotel Larken,” began Bobby again. “I – ”

“Have they got their props and scenery?”

“Everything, I understand,” said Bobby. “I came around to see you – ”

“Who’s running the show?” demanded Spratt.

“Their manager decamped with the money – with what little there was,” explained Bobby, “and they came to me by accident. I understand you have an open date next week.”

“It’s not open now,” declared Spratt. “The date is filled with the Neapolitan Grand Opera Company.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much use of my talking, then,” said Bobby, smiling.

“Not much,” said Spratt. “They’re a good company, but I’ve noticed from the reports that they’ve been badly managed. The Dago that brought them over didn’t know the show business in this country and tried to run the circus himself; and, of course, they’ve gone on the rocks. It’s great luck that they landed here. I just heard a bit ago that they were in town. I suppose they’re flat broke.”

“Why, yes,” said Bobby. “I just went up to the Hotel Larken and said I’d be responsible for their hotel bill.”

“Oh,” said Spratt. “Then you’re backing them for their week here.”

“Well, I’m not quite sure about that,” hesitated Bobby.

“If you don’t, I will,” offered Spratt. “There’s a long line of full-dress Willies here that’ll draw their week’s wages in advance to attend grand opera in cabs. At two and a half for the first sixteen rows they’ll pack the house for the week, and every diamond in the hock-shops will get an airing for the occasion. But you saw it first, Burnit, and I won’t interfere.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Bobby again hesitated. “I haven’t fully – ”

“Go ahead,” urged Spratt heartily. “It’s your pick-up and I’ll get mine. Hey, Spencer!”

A thin young man, with hair so light that he seemed to have no hair at all and no eyebrows, came in.

“We’ve booked the Neapolitan Grand Opera Company for next week. Have they got Caravaggio and Ricardo with them?” he asked, turning abruptly to Bobby.

Bobby, with a smile, nodded his head.

“All right, Spence; get busy on some press stuff for the afternoon papers. You can fake notices about them from what you know. Use two-inch streamers clear across the pages, then you can get some fresh stuff and the repertoire to-night for the morning papers. Play it up strong, Spence. Use plenty of space; and, say, tell Billy to get ready for a three o’clock rehearsal. Now, Burnit, let’s go up to the Larken and make arrangements.”

“We might just as well wait an hour,” counseled Bobby. “The only one I found in the crowd who could speak English was Signorina Caravaggio.”

“I know her,” said Spratt. “Her other name’s Nora McGinnis. Smart woman, too, and straight as a string; and sing! Why, that big ox can sing a bird off a tree.”

“She’s just gone over to lunch with Biff Bates at the Spender,” observed Bobby, “and we’d better wait for her. She seems to be the leading spirit.”

“Of course she is. Let’s go right over to the Spender.”

Biff Bates did not seem overly pleased when his tête-à-tête luncheon was interrupted by Bobby and Mr. Spratt, but the Signorina Nora very quickly made it apparent that business was business. Arrangements were promptly made to attach the carload of effects for back salaries due the company, and to lease these to Bobby for the week for a nominal sum. Bobby was to pay the regular schedule of salaries for that week and make what profit he could. A rehearsal of Carmen was to be called that afternoon at three, and a repertoire was arranged.

Feeling very much exhilarated after all this, Bobby drove out in his automobile after lunch to see Agnes Elliston. He found that young lady and Aunt Constance about to start for a drive, their carriage being already at the door, but without any ceremony he bundled them into his machine instead.

“Purely as my trustee,” he explained, “Agnes must inspect my new business venture.”

Aunt Constance smiled.

“The trusteeship of Agnes hasn’t done you very much good so far,” she observed. “As a matter of fact, if she wanted to build up a reputation as an expert trustee, I don’t think she could accomplish much by printing in her circulars the details of her past stewardship.”

“I don’t want her to work up a reputation as a trustee,” retorted Bobby. “She suits me just as she is, and I’m inclined to thank the governor for having loaded her down with the job.”

“I’m becoming reconciled to it myself,” admitted Agnes, smiling up at him. “Really, I have great faith that one day you will learn how to take care of money – if the money holds out that long. What is the new venture, Bobby?”

He grinned quite cheerfully.

“I am about to become an angel,” he said quite solemnly.

Aunt Constance shook her head.

“No, Bobby,” she said kindly; “there are spots, you know, where angels fear to tread.”

But Agnes took the declaration with no levity whatever.

“You don’t mean in a theatrical sense?” she inquired.

“In a theatrical sense,” he insisted. “I am about to back the Neapolitan Grand Opera Company.”

“Why, Bobby!” objected Agnes, aghast. “You surely don’t mean it! I never thought you would contemplate anything so preposterous as that. I thought it was to be only a benefit!”

“It’s only a temporary arrangement,” he reassured her, laughing that he had been taken so seriously. “I’m arranging so that they can earn their way out of town; that’s all. I am taking you down now to see their first rehearsal.”

“I don’t care to go,” she declared, in a tone so piqued that Bobby turned to her in mute astonishment.

Aunt Constance laughed at his look of utter perplexity.

“How little you understand, Bobby,” she said. “Don’t you see that Agnes is merely jealous?”

“Indeed not!” Agnes indignantly denied. “That is an idea more absurd than the fact that Bobby should go into such an enterprise at all. However, since I lay myself open to such a suspicion I shall offer no further objection to going.”

Bobby looked at her curiously and then he carefully refrained from chuckling, for Aunt Constance, though joking, had told the truth. Instant visions of dazzling sopranos, of mezzos and contraltos, of angelic voices and of vast beauty and exquisite gowning, had flashed in appalling procession before her mental vision. The idea, in the face of the appalling actuality, was so rich that Bobby pursued it no further lest he spoil it, and talked about the weather and equally inane topics the rest of the way.

It was not until they had turned into the narrow alley at the side of the Orpheum, and from that to the still more narrow alley at its rear, that the zest of adventure began to make amends to Agnes for certain disagreeable moments of the ride. At the stage door a particularly bewildered-looking man with a rolling eye and a weak jaw, rendered limp and helpless by the polyglot aliens who had flocked upon him, strickenly let them in, to grope their way, amid what seemed an inextricable confusion, but was in reality the perfection of orderliness, upon the dim stage, beyond which stretched, in vast emptiness, the big, black auditorium. Upon the stage, chattering in shrill voices, were the forty members of the company, still in their queer clothing, while down in front, where shaded lights – seeming dull and discouraged amid all the surrounding darkness – streamed upon the music, were the members of the orchestra, chattering just as volubly. The general note was quite different in pitch from the one Bobby had heard that morning, for since he had seen them the members of the organization had been fed, and life looked cheerful.

Wandering at a loss among these people, and trying in the dim twilight to find some face that he knew, the ears of Bobby and his party were suddenly assailed by an extremely harsh and penetrating voice which shouted:

“Clear!”

This was accompanied by a sharp clap from a pair of very broad hands. The chattering suddenly took on a rapid crescendo, ascending a full third in the scale and then dying abruptly in a little high falsetto shriek; and Bobby, with a lady upon either arm, found his little trio immediately alone in the center of the stage, a row of dim footlights cutting off effectually any view into the vast emptiness of the auditorium.

“Hey, you; clear!” came the harsh voice again, accompanied by another sharp clap of the hands, and a bundle of intense fighting energy bounced out from the right tormentor wing, in the shape of a gaunt, fiercely-mustached and entirely bald man of about forty-five, who appeared perpetually to be in the last stages of distraction.

“Who do you weesh to see?” demanded the gaunt man, in a very decided foreign accent. He had made a very evident attempt to be quite polite indeed, and forgiving of people who did not know enough to spring for the wings at the sound of that magic word, “Clear!”

Any explanations that Bobby might have tried to make were happily prevented by a voice from the yawning blackness – a quiet voice, a voice of authority, the voice of Mr. Spratt.

“Come right down in front here, Burnit. Jimmy, show the gentleman how to get down.”

“Thees way,” snapped the gaunt man, with evident relief but no abatement whatever of his briskness, and he very hastily walked over to the right wings, where Jimmy, the house electrician, piloted the trio with equal relief through the clustered mass of singers to the door behind the boxes. As they emerged into the auditorium the raucous voice of the gaunt man was heard to shout: “All ready now. Carmen all ze way through.” An apparent repetition of which statement he immediately made with equal raucousness in two or three languages. There was a call to Caravaggio in English, to Ricardo and the Signers Fivizzano and Rivaroli in Italian, to Messrs. Philippi and Schaerbeeken in Spanish and Dutch, to Madam Villenauve in French, to Madam Kadanoff in Russian, and to Mademoiselle Török in Hungarian, to know if they were ready; then, in rough but effective German, he informed the Herr Professor down in the orchestra that all was prepared, clapped his hands, cried “Overture,” and immediately plunged to the right upper entrance, marked by two chairs, where, with shrill objurgations, he began instructing and drilling the Soldiers’ Chorus out of certain remembered awkwardnesses, as Herr Frühlingsvogel’s baton fell for the overture.

Shorn of all the glamor that scenic environment, light effects and costume could give them, it was a distinct shock to Agnes to gaze in wondering horror from each one of those amazing faces to the other, and when the cigarette girls trooped out, amazement gave way to downright consternation. Nevertheless, she cheered up considerably, and the apex of her cheerfulness was reached when the oversized Signorina Caravaggio sang, very musically, however, the rôle of the petite and piquant Carmen. It was then that, sitting by Bobby in the darkness, Agnes observed with a sigh of content:

“Your trustee quite approves, Bobby. I don’t mind being absolutely truthful for once in my life. I was a little jealous. But how could I be? Really, their voices are fine.”

Mr. Spratt, too, was of that opinion, and he came back to Bobby to say so most emphatically.

“They’ll do,” said he. “After the first night they’ll have this town crazy. If the seat sale don’t go right for Monday we’ll pack the house with paper, and the rest of the week will go big. Just hear that Ricardo! The little bit of a sawed-off toad sings like a canary. If you don’t look at ’em, they’re great.”

They were superb. From the throats of that ill-favored chorus there came divine harmony, smooth, evenly-balanced, exhilarating, almost flawless, and as the great musical poem of passion unfolded and the magnificent aria of Don José was finished in the second act, the little group of listeners down in front burst into involuntary applause, to which there was but one dissenting voice. This voice, suddenly evolving out of the darkness at Bobby’s side, ejaculated with supreme disgust:

“Well, what do you think of that! Why, that fat little fishworm of a Dago is actually gone bug-house over Miss McGinnis,” a fact which had been obvious to all of them the minute small Ricardo began to sing his wonderful love song to large Caravaggio.

The rest of them had found only amusement in the fact, but to Biff Bates there was nothing funny about this. He sat in speechless disapproval throughout the balance of that much-interrupted performance, wherein Professor Frühlingsvogel, now and then, stopped his music with a crash to shriek an excited direction that it was all wrong, that it was execrable, that it was a misdemeanor, a crime, a murder to sing it in that way! The passage must be all sung over; or, at other times, the gaunt stage director, whose name was Monsieur Noire, would rush with a hoarse howl down to Herr Professor, order him to stop the music, and, turning, berate some unfortunate performer who had defied the conventions of grand opera by acting quite naturally. On the whole, however, it was a very creditable performance, and Bobby’s advisers gave the project their unqualified approval.

“It is really a commendable thing,” Aunt Constance complacently announced, “to encourage music of this order, and to furnish such a degree of cultivation for the masses.”

It was a worthy project indeed. As for the company itself there could be no question that it was a good one. No one expected acting in grand opera, no one expected that the performers would be physically adaptable to their parts. The voice! The voice was all. Even Agnes admitted that it was a splendid thing to be a patron of the fine arts; but Bobby, in his profound new wisdom and his thorough conversion to strictly commercial standards, said with vast iconoclasm:

“You are overlooking the main point. I am not so anxious to become a patron of the fine arts as I am to make money,” with which terrible heresy he left them at home, with a thorough understanding that he was quite justified in his new venture; though next morning, when he confided the fact to Johnson, that worthy, with a sigh, presented him with an appropriate missive from among those in the gray envelopes left in his care by the late John Burnit. It was inscribed:

To My Son Robert, Upon His Deciding to Back a Theatrical Venture

“Sooner or later, every man thinks it would be a fine thing to run a show, and the earlier in life it happens the sooner a man will have it out of his system. I tried it once myself, and I know. So good luck to you, my boy, and here’s hoping that you don’t get stung too badly.”

CHAPTER XX
STILL WITH THE RELUCTANT CONSENT OF AGNES, BOBBY INVESTS IN THE FINE ARTS

That week’s “season of grand opera” was an unqualified success, following closely the lines laid down by the experienced Mr. Spratt. Caravaggio and Ricardo and Philippi and Villenauve became household words, after the Monday night performance of Carmen, and for the balance of the week shining carriages rolled up to the entrance of the Orpheum, disgorging load after load of high-hatted gentlemen and long-plumed ladies. Before the end of the engagement it was definitely known that Bobby’s investment would yield a profit, even deducting for the days of idleness during which he had been compelled to support the rehearsing company. The powers of darkness thereupon set vigorously to work upon him to carry the company on through the rest of its season.

It was then that the storm broke. Against his going further with the company Agnes Elliston interposed an objection so decided and so unflattering that the entente cordiale at the Elliston home was strained dangerously near to the breaking point, and in this she was aided and abetted by Aunt Constance, who ridiculed him, and by Uncle Dan Elliston, who took him confidentially for a grave and hardheaded remonstrance. Chalmers, Johnson, and even Applerod wrestled with him in spirit; his friends at the Idlers’ Club “guyed” him unmercifully, and even Biff Bates, though his support was earnestly sought by the Signorina Caravaggio, also counseled him roughly against it, and through it all Bobby was made to feel that he was a small boy who had proposed to eat a peck of green apples and then go in swimming in dog-days. Another note from his father, handed to him by the faithful and worried Johnson, was the deciding straw:

To My Son Robert, About That Theatrical Venture

“When a man who knows nothing of the business backs a show, there’s usually a woman at the bottom of it – and that kind of woman is mostly rank poison to a normal man, even if she is a good woman. No butterfly ever goes back into its chrysalis and becomes a grub again. Let birds of a feather flock together, Bobby.”

That unfortunate missive, for once shooting so wide the mark, pushed Bobby over the edge. There was a streak of stubbornness in him which, well developed and turned into proper channels, was likely to be very valuable, but until he learned to use that stubbornness in the right way it bade fair to plunge him into more difficulties than he could extricate himself from with profit. Even Agnes, reading that note, indignantly agreed with Bobby that he was being unjustly misread.

“It is absurd,” he explained to her. “This is the first dividend-paying investment I have been able to make so far, and I’m going to keep it up just as long as I can make money out of it. I’d be very foolish if I didn’t. Besides, this is just a little in-between flyer, while I’m conservatively waiting for a good, legitimate opening. It can take, at most, but a very small part of my two hundred and fifty thousand.”

Agnes, though defending him against his father, was still reluctant about the trip, but suddenly, with a curious smile, she withdrew all objections and even urged him to go ahead.

“Bobby,” said she, still with that curious smile and strangely shining eyes, and putting both her hands upon his shoulders, “I see that you must go ahead with this. I – I guess it will be good for you. Somehow, I think that this is to be your last folly, that you are really learning that the world is not all polo and honor-bets. So go ahead – and I’ll wait here.”

He could not know how much that hurt her. He only knew, after she had talked more lightly of his trip, that he had her full and free consent, and, highly elated with his first successful business venture, he took up the contracts of the Neapolitan Grand Opera Company where Signor Matteo, the decamped manager and producer, had dropped them. The members of the company having attached the scenery and effects for back salaries, sold them to Bobby for ten thousand dollars, and he immediately found himself confronted by demands for settlements, with the alternative of damage suits, from the two cities in which the company had been booked for the two past weeks.

Had Bobby not bound himself irrevocably to contracts which made him liable for the salaries of every member of this company for the next twenty weeks, he would have withdrawn instantly at the first hint of these suits; but, now that he was in for it, he promptly compromised them at a rate which made Spratt furious.

“If I’d thought,” said Spratt angrily in the privacy of the Orpheum office, “that you were sucker enough to get roped in for the full season, I’d have tossed you out of the running for this week. This game is a bigger gamble than the Stock Exchange. The smartest producers in the business never know when they have a winner or a loser. More than that, while all actors are hard to handle, of all the combinations on earth, a grand opera company is the worst. I’ll bet a couple of cold bottles that before you’re a week on the road you’ll have leaks in your dirigible over some crazy dramatic stunts that are not in the book of any opera of the Neapolitan repertoire.”

The prediction was so true that it was proved that very night, which was Friday, during the repetition of Carmen. It seemed that Biff Bates, by means of the supreme dominance of the Caravaggio, had been made free of the stage, a rare privilege, and one that enabled Biff to spend his time, under unusual and romantic circumstances, very much in the company of the Celtic Signorina; all of which was very much to the annoyance, distress and fury of Signor Ricardo, especially on Carmen night. At all other times the great Ricardo thought very well indeed of the Signorina Nora, only being in any degree near to unfaithfulness when, on Aïda nights, he sang to vivacious little Madam Villenauve; but on Carmen nights he was devotedly, passionately, madly in love with the divine Car-r-r-r-avaggio! Else how could he sing the magnificent second act aria? Life without her on those nights would be a hollow mockery, the glance of any possible rival in her direction a desecration. Why, he even had to restrain himself to keep from doing actual damage to Philippi, who, though on the shady side of forty-five, still sang a most dashing Escamillo; nor was his jealousy less poignant because Philippi and Caravaggio were sworn enemies.

Thus it may be understood – by any one, at least, who has ever loved ecstatically and fervidly and even hectically, like the great Ricardo – how on Monday and Wednesday nights and the Thursday matinée, all of which were Caravaggio performances, he resented Biff’s presence. From dark corners he more darkly watched them chatting in frank enjoyment of each other’s company; he made unexpected darts in front of their very eyes to greet them with the most alarming scowls; and because he insolently brushed the shoulder of the peaceably inclined and self-sure Biff upon divers occasions, and Biff made no sign of resentment, he imagined that Biff trembled in his boots whenever he noted the approach of the redoubtable Ricardo with his infinitesimal but ferocious mustachios. Great, then, was his wonder, to say nothing of his rage, when Biff, after all the scowls and shoulderings that he had received on Thursday, actually came around for Friday night’s Carmen performance!

Even before the fierce Ricardo had gone into his dressing-room he was already taking upon himself the deadly character of Don José, and his face surged red with fury when he saw Biff Bates, gaily laughing as if no doom impended, come in at the stage door with the equally gay and care-free Caravaggio. But after Signor Ricardo had donned the costume and the desperateness of the brigadier Don José – it was then that the fury sank into his soul! And that fury boiled and seethed as, during the first and second acts, he found in the wings Signorina Car-r-r-r-r-r-avaggio absorbed in pleasant but very significant chat with his deadly enemy, the crude, unmusical, inartistic, soulless Biffo de Bates-s-s-s! But, ah! There was another act to come, the third act, at the beginning of which the property man handed him the long, sharp, wicked-looking, bloodthirsty knife with which he was to fight Escamillo, and with which in the fourth act he was to kill Carmen. The mere possession of that knife wrought the great tenor’s soul to gory tragedy; so much so that immediately after the third act curtain calls he rushed directly to the spot where he knew the contemptible Signor Biffo de Bates-s-s-s to be standing, and with shrill Latin imprecations flourished that keen, glistening blade before the eyes of the very much astounded Biff.

For a moment, thoroughly incredulous, Biff refused to believe it, until a second demonstration compelled him to acknowledge that the great Ricardo actually meant threatening things toward himself. When this conviction forced its way upon him, Biff calmly reached out, and, with a grip very much like a bear-trap, seized Signor Ricardo by the forearm of the hand which held the knife. With his unengaged hand Biff then smacked the Signor Ricardo right severely on the wrist.

“You don’t mean it, you know, Sig-nor Garlic,” he calmly observed. “If I thought you did I’d smack you on both wrists. Why, you little red balloon, I ain’t afraid of any mutt on earth that carries a knife like that, as long as I got my back to the wall.”

Still holding the putty-like Signor by the forearm, he delicately abstracted from his clasp the huge knife, and, folding it up gravely, handed it back to him; then deliberately he turned his back on the Signor and pushed his way through the delightedly horror-stricken emotionalists who had gathered at the fray, and strolled over to where Signorina Caravaggio had stood an interested and mirth-shaken observer.

“You mustn’t think all Italians are like that, Biff,” she said, her first impulse, as always, to see justice done; “but singers are a different breed. I don’t think he’s bluffing, altogether. If he got a real good chance some place in the dark, and was sure that he wouldn’t be caught, he might use a stiletto on you.”

“If he ever does I’ll slap his forehead,” said Biff. “But say, he uses that cleaver again in the show?”

The Signorina Nora shrugged her shoulders.

“He’s supposed to stab me with it in this next act.”

“He is!” exclaimed Biff. “Well, just so he don’t make any mistake I’m going over and paste him one.”

It was not necessary, for Signor Ricardo, after studying the matter over and seeing no other way out of it, proceeded to have a fit. No one, not even the illustrious Signor, could tell just how much of that fit was deliberate and artificial, and just how much was due to an overwrought sensitive organization, but certain it was that the Signor Ricardo was quite unable to go on with the performance, and Monsieur Noire himself, as agitated as a moment before the great Ricardo had been, frantically rushed up to Biff and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders.