Behind the curtain all was ready on the full stage.  The dogs sat on their chairs in abject silence with Davis and his wife menacing them to remain silent, while, in front of the curtain, Dick and Daisy Bell delighted the matinee audience with their singing and dancing.  And all went well, and no one in the audience would have suspected the full stage of dogs behind the curtain had not Dick and Daisy, accompanied by the orchestra, begun to sing “Roll Me Down to Rio.”

Michael could not help it.  Even as Kwaque had long before mastered him by the jews’ harp, and Steward by love, and Harry Del Mar by the harmonica, so now was he mastered by the strains of the orchestra and the voices of the man and woman lifting the old familiar rhythm, taught him by Steward, of “Roll Me Down to Rio.”  Despite himself, despite his sullenness, the forces compulsive opened his jaws and set all his throat vibrating in accompaniment.

From beyond the curtain came a titter of children and women that grew into a roar and drowned out the voices of Dick and Daisy.  Wilton Davis cursed unbelievably as he sprang down the stage to Michael.  But Michael howled on, and the audience laughed on.  Michael was still howling when the short club smote him.  The shock and hurt of it made him break off and yelp an involuntary cry of pain.

“Knock his block off, dearest,” Mrs. Davis counselled.

And then ensued battle royal.  Davis struck shrewd blows that could be heard, as were heard the snarls and growls of Michael.  The audience, under the sway of the comic, ignored Dick and Daisy Bell.  Their turn was spoiled.  The Davis turn was “queered,” as Wilton impressed it.  Michael’s block was knocked off within the meaning of the term.  And the audience, on the other side of the curtain, was edified and delighted.

Dick and Daisy could not continue.  The audience wanted what was behind the curtain, not in front of it.  Michael was taken off stage thoroughly throttled by one of the stage-hands, and the curtain arose on the full set—­full, save for the one empty chair.  The boys in the audience first realized the connection between the empty chair and the previous uproar, and began clamouring for the absent dog.  The audience took up the cry, the dogs barked more excitedly, and five minutes of hilarity delayed the turn which, when at last started, was marked by rustiness and erraticness on the part of the dogs and by great peevishness on the part of Wilton Davis.

“Never mind, honey,” his imperturbable wife assured him in a stage whisper.  “We’ll just ditch that dog and get a regular one.  And, anyway, we’ve put one over on that Daisy Bell.  I ain’t told you yet what she said about me, only last week, to some of my friends.”

Several minutes later, still on the stage and handling his animals, the husband managed a chance to mutter to his wife:  “It’s the dog.  It’s him I’m after.  I’m going to lay him out.”