THE WOLF AT HOME.


There is a certain music-hall, in a certain street, leading out of a
certain road, and this is quite clear and definite enough. Its
distinctive characteristics, above any of its fellows, is a vulgarity
so profound, that the connoisseur or student in that branch of mental
culture thinks that here at last he has reached the lowest depths. For
this reason one shrinks from actually naming it, because it might
become fashionable, and then, if it fondly tried to change its
character to suit its changed audience, it might entirely lose its
present charm, and become simply commonplace.

Joe Gallop stood in the doorway of this hall, a few days after the
Tempting of Mr. James. It was about ten o'clock, when the
entertainments were in full blast. He had a cigarette between his
lips, as becomes a young man of fashion, but it had gone out, and he
was thinking of something. To judge from the cunning look in his eyes,
it was something not immediately connected with the good of his
fellow-creatures. Presently the music of the orchestra ceased, and
certain female acrobats, who had been "contorting" themselves
fearfully and horribly for a quarter of an hour upon the stage, kissed
their hands, which were as hard as ropes, from the nature of their
profession, and smiled a fond farewell. There was some applause, but
not much, because neither man nor woman cares greatly for female
acrobats, and the performers themselves are with difficulty persuaded
to learn their art, and generally make haste to "go in" again as soon
as they can, and try henceforward to forget that they have ever done
things with ropes and bars.