“Five cents,” said the keeper of the box office.
“There it is,” said Julius, who had come provided with the right change.
The treasurer pulled a cord connecting with the door of entrance, and Julius entered.
The Oprea House proved to consist of a room twenty feet by thirty, and six and a half feet high. A portion of this was set apart as a stage, in front of which hung a curtain of turkey-red calico, four breadths wide. On one side was a lofty pillar with a scroll, on which was written the ambitious name of this temple of the muses, “Grand Duke’s Oprea House.” In place of the customary footlights was a kerosene lamp, which with the aid of a concave reflector illuminated the room.
“What do yer think of it, Julius?” asked Pat, with justifiable pride.
“It’s bully.”
“Ain’t it? Do yer see that?”
Pat pointed to a large broadside of brown packing paper, on which was rudely scrawled:{14}
“BENEFIT
OF
Miles O’Reilly,
The Great Nigger Komedian
AND
Jig Dancer.”
“That’s me!” said Pat, with professional pride. “It looks big, don’t it?”