"Locked doors! Locked doors!" he snapped with a scowl. "What's the
meaning of this; and what, may I ask, is the intention of this--this
epicene attire?"

"Pantomime, sir. The Head gave us leave," said Abanazar, as the only
member of the Sixth concerned. Dick Four stood firm in the confidence
born of well-fitting tights, but Beetle strove to efface himself
behind the piano. A gray princess-skirt borrowed from a day-boy's
mother and a spotted cotton bodice unsystematically padded with
imposition-paper make one ridiculous. And in other regards Beetle had
a bad conscience.

"As usual!" sneered King. "Futile foolery just when your careers, such
as they may be, are hanging in the balance. I see! Ah, I see! The old
gang of criminals--allied forces of disorder--Corkran"--the Slave of
the Lamp smiled politely--"McTurk"--the Irishman scowled--"and, of
course, the unspeakable Beetle, our friend Gigadibs." Abanazar, the
Emperor, and Aladdin had more or less of characters, and King passed
them over. "Come forth, my inky buffoon, from behind yonder instrument
of music! You supply, I presume, the doggerel for this entertainment.
Esteem yourself to be, as it were, a poet?"

"He's found one of 'em," thought Beetle, noting the flush on King's
cheek-bone.

"I have just had the pleasure of reading an effusion of yours to my
address, I believe--an effusion intended to rhyme. So--so you despise
me, Master Gigadibs, do you? I am quite aware--you need not explain
--that it was ostensibly not intended for my edification. I read it
with laughter--yes, with laughter. These paper pellets of inky boys