“I’ll remember that.  Now I will show you how Morocco is treated.  Great Scott!  I’ve forgotten how many pages to turn!  Here it is!  Look at it quick, Alice, before I forget the next!  The author tells us that the natives have such a hatred for Christians that they refuse to use these splendid bridges.  The Moors—­”

“Wait,” interrupted Mrs. Gorham.  “It says here, ’Emphasize the pictures by pointing to the bridges.’”

“All right—­consider those bridges pointed to, Alice.  The Moors are intellectual mummies.”  Allen carefully turned two pages, and encouraged by a nod of approval from Mrs. Gorham proceeded.  “Why, Miss Gorham, if a Moor happens to sit down upon a tack he doesn’t curse or swear or rail at fate; he simply murmurs, ‘It is written,’ and carefully replaces the tack for some other Moor to sit on.”

“It doesn’t say that,” Alice protested, laughing.

“Well, if it doesn’t it ought to,” insisted Allen, taking the instruction sheet from Mrs. Gorham’s hands to prevent Alice from satisfying her curiosity.  “You’re not supposed to read the instructions, you know.  You are just to sit there entranced while I do this monologue act—­you’re not even expected to ask questions, as any indiscretion such as that is apt to make the agent lose his cue.  Your part comes at the end when I give you a perfectly good little piece of patient paper, which you may spoil any old way you like so long as you sign your name or make your mark—­all of which you will discover in due time if you follow the professor closely and learn his habits.”

Alice and Eleanor were convulsed with laughter over Allen’s antics, but the boy soon sobered down and again assumed his dignified demeanor.

“Please observe, Miss Gorham, these endless aisles of arches which form part of three miles of stables built by Mulai Ismail, the tyrant sultan.  He was a superb horseman.  It is said that he was able in one graceful movement to mount his steed, draw his sword, and neatly decapitate the slave who held his stirrup—­”

“You are reciting that, Allen,” Mrs. Gorham broke in.

“I know I am.  Isn’t that right?”

“No; it says, ’Commit the following to memory absolutely, but appear to read it.’”

“Oh, sorrow!  After spending all that time to learn this, I have to spend some more time learning to remember that I have remembered.  Isn’t it the awful stunt!”

“You’re doing beautifully,” Alice encouraged, laughing; “but it’s a shame to waste it all on an audience of two.  Why don’t you make a vaudeville turn out of it?”

“There you go asking questions again,” protested Allen, “which is strictly forbidden by the rules.”  The boy wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.  “Honestly, you’ve gotten me so rattled that I don’t know whether what comes now is ‘low tone’ or ’pass the next picture and come back to it.’”

“It is ‘low tone,’ Allen,” Mrs. Gorham prompted.