was grateful. Learning that Jack and Marlowe proposed to enter the house occupied by Paul, he showed his gratitude by giving the young street merchant an intimation of their intentions. Thus, when the attempt was made, Paul was prepared, and the two burglars walked into a trap. Jack was caught on the spot, but Marlowe for the time escaped. Had he left the city at once, he might have escaped wholly. But he was inflamed with bitter anger against the boy Julius, who, as he rightly judged, had betrayed them, and he was determined to be revenged. Following the boy to Staten Island, he overtook him in a lonely place, and but for timely interference might have murdered him, in which case the present volume would never have been written.
But Julius was reserved for better things. His dangerous enemy was arrested, and being identified as having been concerned in the Madison Avenue robbery, was tried in due form, and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment in Sing Sing.
I have anticipated matters a little, as at the time the present story opens both he and Jack Morgan were temporarily confined in the Tombs, while awaiting trial.
As for Julius, he was rewarded by a gift of fifty dollars, and, by the advice of his new friends, determined to seek a home in the West, going out under the auspices of the Children’s Aid Society. The company of which he was to be one was to start in a few days. Meanwhile Julius decided to enjoy a rest from his usual labors, having an ample supply of money to meet his small expenses. On the whole, he was pleased with the idea of going West. But, apart from this consideration, he felt that his life would not be safe in the city should Jack Morgan or Marlowe succeed in breaking jail, as they had done more than once before. The boy had good reason to apprehend danger, for he well knew their brutal natures, and their unscrupulousness, and that they would stop at no crime in wreaking vengeance upon him. Once out West, however, he would be out of their reach, and it was not likely that they would follow him out there.
CHAPTER II.
THE “GRAND DUKE’S OPREA HOUSE.”
Some minutes before eight, Julius reached the “Grand Duke’s Oprea House.” It is very eligibly located on Baxter Street not far from the famous Five Points. Perhaps in consequence of the filthy condition of the streets in the immediate neighborhood, visitors are not expected to appear in full dress, and nothing is more common than for the young gentlemen who patronize it to dispense with coat or vest, or both. As for kid gloves, these are not tolerated at the Oprea House, and a fellow who indulged in them would be regarded as “puttin’ on airs,” and probably be hustled out unceremoniously, as guilty of a gross insult to the rest of the spectators.
The entrance to the Grand Duke theatre is not imposing. In fact, the visitor is obliged to descend a shaky staircase into a cellar about ten feet below the level of the sidewalk.
“It’s like goin’ down into a coal mine,” remarked Julius to Pat Riley, who was acting as his guide.
“That’s so,” said Pat; “but we have jolly fun when we get there.”
Reaching the bottom of the flight of steps, Julius found himself confronted by the ticket seller who was looking out of a square hole, over which were marked the prices of admission.
“That’s where yer pay,” said Pat. “I go in free, coz I’m one of the actors.”
“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:
“That’s me!” said Pat, with professional pride. “It looks big, don’t it?”
“Yes,” said Julius, admiringly.
“There’s lots of chaps would give all they could make on shines in a week, to hev their names put up there,” said Pat, confidentially.
“I’d like it myself,” said Julius.
“Ef you wos goin’ to stay in the city, I’d learn you some jigs,” said Pat, “and see what you was made of. It isn’t every feller that can make a good jig dancer.”
“How are you, Miles?” said a large boy, slapping Pat on the shoulder. “I guess you’ll have a good house.”
“I hope I will. Dave, this is a friend of mine. He ain’t been to the Oprea House before.”
“Glad to see yer,” said David Conroy, with dignified affability. “Hope yer’ll get yer money’s worth.”
To this Julius made a suitable reply.
“Dave is stage manager,” said Pat. “He kin do anything, kin Dave. He painted the sceneries; you’ll see ’em bimeby, and he’s the best actor we’ve got. He’s captain of the Mulligans. There ain’t nothin’ that feller can’t do,” concluded Pat, with unmistakable admiration expressed in his tone.
“Where do you get your plays from, Pat?”
“Call me Miles while we are in the Oprea House. That’s my name here.”
“Miles, then.”
“Dave fixes ’em up out of plays at the Theatre Comique, and some of the songs we gits from Tony Pastor’s. If there was time I’d take you behind the sceneries. But it’s most time to begin.”
“Miles O’Reilly is wanted,” was heard from behind the curtain, and the great comedian left our hero and hurried behind the scenes.
By this time the cellar was nearly full of boys, varying in age from five to twenty, who were crowded together in such near proximity as the limited size of the auditorium rendered imperatively necessary. The front row was close up to the curtain, and here Julius was fortunate enough to secure a place.
The stiffness and reserve which characterize the spectators at other theatres was dispensed with at the free and easy “Grand Duke’s Oprea House.” Cheerful and jocose remarks were interchanged, spiced with genial humor, and occasionally tinged with sarcastic remarks of a personal character. But all was taken in good part. At last, however, the patrons became impatient, and calls were heard, such as, “What yer waitin’ fur?” “Hurry up de overture!” “Have yer gone ter sleep behind there?”
At last the manager responded to the flattering impatience of his patrons. The curtain arose and displayed the orchestra consisting of two musicians, a performer on an accordeon and a bone-player. The overture was made up of pieces skillfully selected
