At the third rehearsal, just as the Chinese Giant stepped off the coal-oil box—­thereby robbing himself miraculously of two feet of stature—­the schoolma’am approached him with a look in her big eyes that set him shivering.  When she laid a finger mysteriously upon his arm and drew him into the corner sacred to secret consultations, the forehead of Happy Jack resembled the outside of a stone water-jar in hot weather.  He knew beforehand just about what she would say.  It was the tableau that had tormented his sleep and made his days a misery for the last ten days—­the tableau with red fire and Annie Pilgreen.

Miss Satterly told him that she had already spoken to Annie, and that Annie was willing if Happy Jack had no objections.  Happy Jack had, but he could not bring himself to mention the fact.

The schoolma’am had not quoted Annie’s reply verbatim, but that was mere detail.  When she had asked Annie if she would take part in a tableau with Happy Jack, Annie had dropped her pale eyelids and said:  “Yes, ma’am.”  Still it was as much as the schoolma’am, knowing Annie, could justly expect.

Annie Pilgreen was an anaemic sort of creature with pale eyes, ash-colored hair that clung damply to her head, and a colorless complexion; her conversational powers were limited to “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” (or Ma’am if sex demanded and Annie remembered in time).  But Happy Jack loved her; and when a woman loves and is loved, her existence surely is justified for all time.

Happy Jack sent a despairing glance of appeal at the Happy Family; but the Family was very much engaged, down by the stove.  Cal Emmett was fanning himself with Mrs. Jarley’s poppy-loaded bonnet and refreshing his halting memory of the lecture with sundry promptings from Len Adams who held the book.  Chip Bennett was whittling his sword into shape and Weary was drumming a tattoo in the great wooden bowl with the spoon he used to devour poisoned rice upon the stage.  The others were variously engaged; not one of them appeared conscious of the fact that Happy Jack was facing the tragedy of his bashful life.

Before he realized it, Miss Satterly had somehow managed to worm from him a promise, and after that nothing mattered.  The Wax-works, the tree, the whole entertainment dissolved into a blurred background, against which he was to stand with Annie Pilgreen, for the amusement of his neighbors, who would stamp their feet and shout derisive things at him.  Very likely he would be subjected to the agony of an encore, and he knew, beyond all doubt, that he would never be permitted to forget the figure he should cut; for Happy Jack knew he was as unbeautiful as a hippopotamus and as awkward.  He wondered why he, of all the fellows who were to take part, should be chosen for that tableau; it seemed to him they ought to pick out someone who was at least passably good-looking and hadn’t such big, red hands and such immense feet.  His plodding brain revolved the mystery slowly and persistently.