“It’s not a bad tune,” said Captain Patch. “You see, someone comes on and sings the whole thing straight off—just to put the audience in touch with the general hang of affairs—and then, I thought, we’d act it. This fellow Abdul, you know, full of swagger—dressed up like a Turk—nothing easier than to dress like a Turk, on the stage—a towel twisted round your head, and shoes turning up at the toes, and a bill-hook or something for a scimitar, and everyone tumbles to it directly. Well, Abdul could get quite a lot of laughs by putting on tremendous side and all that sort of thing. Then the Russian chap—or we could just call him Slavonic, if you think Russians are rather a slump in the market just now—of course he’s in love with Abdul’s girl, the Muscovite maiden. He’d have to be the hero of the piece—Ivan Petruski Skivah—flourishing about with a sword and that kind of thing—and in uniform—”
“The Hessian boots?”
“Exactly. The Hessian boots. A note of realism introduced at once—”
“And what about the Muscovite maiden?” said Claire.
“She’ll sing duets with Ivan Petruski, of course, and she’s easy to dress, too. A veil over her head, and slave-bangles, and perhaps a Yashmak. An eastern get-up is always effective, and so very economical to arrange,” said Mrs. Fazackerly with satisfaction.
“We’re going to put in extra parts as well—chorus of Eastern maidens, and Cossacks, and things like that. But those are the principals.”
“And how have you cast it?” I inquired.
“Sallie must be the Muscovite maiden. She’ll look sweet,” said Mrs. Fazackerly, “and she can sing, too.”
“Will Major Ambrey take on the Bulbul Ameer?” Captain Patch asked.
Christopher was not present. We were both positive that he would refuse the suggested honor, and we knew well, moreover, that Christopher is no musician. I have heard him sing in church.