Frank made a signal to the guide, and then the trio slowly descended the stairs, which were dimly lighted by paper-shaded lamps.
At the foot of the stairs the boys passed a door that stood open, enabling them to look into a room that was filled with bunks, upon many of which lay Chinamen who were sleeping or smoking opium. The powerful odor of “dope” that came from that room was sickening.
Then they came to an ordinary step-ladder that led downward again.
Jack halted in dismay.
“Why,” he said, “we must be underground now! Where are we going?”
“To the theatre, dear boy. Hear the music.”
“Why will you persist in calling it that? It seems that those sounds come from the infernal regions, and this passage must lead down to the old fellow’s reception-room.”
“Glit to theatal plitty soon,” assured the guide.
Down the ladder they went, and then, at an open door, paid an admission fee, after which they entered a room that was packed with human beings and was not at all well ventilated.
The room had a low ceiling, from which Chinese lanterns were suspended, shedding a soft light over the scene, which was so strange that it actually seemed weird to the American visitors.