At precisely forty-seven minutes past six, the first man made his appearance.  He was a thick-set, pompous individual, with a gold-headed cane and gold spectacles, and climbed up the stairs with dignity and difficulty.  He was followed by a pale little woman, four small children, and a stout, red-haired nurse, bearing in her arms a baby, which was laboring under an attack of the intermittent squalls.  Marcus reconnoitred the party through his pigeon hole, and nervously jingled the seventy-five cents in his hand.  Tiffles stepped forward to the head of the stairs, in order that he might not be wanting in personal respect to his first patron.

As this thick-set man ascended the stairs, the boys hushed their voices; but Tiffles distinctly heard several of them say, “It’s the Square.”  Though apparently awestruck in his presence, the boys did not forget to play a few practical jokes on “the Square’s” children, such as slapping them, and pinching their legs as they clambered wearily up.  A peal of cries from his tortured offspring, particularly the baby, who received a pin in a sensitive part of its little person, so enraged “the Square,” that he would have beaten all the boys with his gold-headed cane, had they not jumped away, laughing, and got safely out of the building, only to be back again the next minute.

“You should not allow these boys to hang around the stairs, sir,” said the pompous man, planting his foot on the topmost step, and bringing down his cane on the floor with the ring of a watchman’s club.  “It’s trouble enough to come to your panorama, without being annoyed by all the young vagabonds in the village.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” replied Tiffles, inwardly laughing, “but it would take six strong men to regulate the little rascals.”

“Then you ought to employ six strong men, sir.  It’s your business to see that your patrons are not insulted.”

Tiffles could only smile deprecatingly.

“Every exhibition in this hall, for a year past,” continued the man, “has been a humbug—­an outrage on the common sense of mankind.  Perhaps yours is an exception, though, to be candid, I have my doubts of it.  Do I understand, sir, that you have travelled in Africa?”

Tiffles indulged in the unjustifiable deception of nodding his head.

“And you mean to say that the sketches for this panorama were taken on the spot?”

“Yes, sir; on the spot—­in a horn.”

“In a horn!  What’s that?”

“A technical phrase, sir, which it is hardly worth while to explain at length.  Briefly, however, I may say, that no more ingenious or satisfactory mode of taking sketches has been invented.”

“Oh! never mind the details.  I hate the jargon of Art.  I only wished to assure myself that I am not to be imposed on.  Well, I think I will risk it, and go in.  You can put us on a front seat, I suppose?”

“First come, first served,” said Tiffles, amiably, for he had reckoned up, and found that this party brought him a dollar and a quarter, counting the children as half prices, and the baby free.