The two men looked in. About a dozen young people were in the room, which was well lighted by a gasoline hanging-lamp. The furniture was pushed into a corner to leave a good floor space. A curtain was suspended from one of the beams, and behind it there seemed to be great activity and whispered directions. Every one was so intently waiting, they did not notice that the audience had been augmented by the two men at the door.
In front of the curtain came Pearl to announce the next tableaux:—
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said solemnly, although her audience began to laugh expectantly, "we will now present to you a historical tableaux, a living picture of a foolish old king, who thought he could command the waves to stand still. Seated in his arm-chair on the shore you will see King Canute. Behind him are the rugged hills of the Saxon coast. Before him the sea tosses angrily. The tide is rolling in. Each wave is a little bigger than the last, the seventh wave being the largest of all. This tableaux, ladies and gentlemen, in the production of which we have spared no trouble and expense, teaches the vanity of human greatness. Careful attention has been given to detail, as you will observe."
She disappeared behind the curtain for a moment, and when it was pulled back by invisible hands—(broom wire handled by Mary) she was discovered sitting robed in purple (one of the girls had brought her mother's Japanese dressing-gown) with a homemade but very effective crown on her head. Her throne was an arm-chair, raised on blocks of wood. As King Canute, Pearl's eyes were eagle-like and keen, her whole bearing full of arrogance and pride. Dramatically she waved her right arm towards the sea, and in bitter words chided it for its restless tossing, and commanded it to hear the words of the ALL HIGH, Great and Powerful King, and stay—just—where—it—was!
But even as she spoke, a small wave came rolling in, gently lapping the shore. It was Danny Watson, with a small white apron tied around his person, which at each revolution, made a white crest of breaking foam.
The King re-doubled his imprecations, and commands, tearing his hair and threatening to rend his garments, but wave after wave came rhythmically to shore, growing in size and speed, until the seventh wave, crested with foam—a pillow-case torn across and fastened with safety-pins—came crashing to her feet, amid thunderous applause.
When the company, with the king at one end and the first and smallest wave at the other, stood up to take their applause, and respond to curtain calls, next to Pearl stood the seventh wave—crested with foam, dishevelled of hair—a four days' growth of whiskers on his face—but a happy-looking wave—nevertheless.
Mr. Steadman grabbed hold of his friend hysterically. He could not speak.
"Well, thank God, he's not dead anyway," he gasped at last.
"But I fancy," murmured Mr. Driggs, "that he is dead—to the cause!"