The San Juan Opera House, better known as the Gayety, was in truth merely an adjunct to the Poodle-Dog Saloon, the side-doors from the main floor opening directly into the inviting bar-room, while those in the gallery afforded an equally easy egress into the spacious gambling apartments directly above.  It was a monstrous ugly building, constructed entirely of wood most hastily prepared; the stage was utilized both night and day for continuous variety entertainments of the kind naturally demanded by the motley gathering.  These, however, were occasionally suspended to make room for some adventurous travelling company to appear in the legitimate drama, but at the close of every evening performance the main floor was promptly cleared, the rows of chairs pushed hastily back from the centre, and the space thus vacated utilized for a general dance, which invariably continued until dawn.

When the drop-curtain slowly rose that Saturday evening fully three thousand people crowded the hall, eager for any fresh excitement; and ready enough either to taunt or applaud a performer, as the whim moved them.  Bearded miners conspicuous in red shirts; cattlemen wearing wide sombreros and hairy “chaps”; swarthy Mexicans lazily puffing the inseparable cigarette; gamblers attired in immaculate linen, together with numerous women gaudy of cheek and attire, composed a frontier audience full of possibilities.  The result might easily prove good or evil, according to the prevailing temper, but fortunately the “Heart of the World” quickly caught the men’s fancy, the laughter ringing loud in appreciation of Mr. Lane’s ardent buffoonery, while the motley crowd sat in surprised silence evincing respect, as Miss Norvell drove home to their minds the lesson of a woman’s sorrow and struggle against temptation.  It was well worth while looking out across the oil-lamp footlights upon those hard-faced, bearded men, those gaudily attired women, thus held and controlled by perfectly depleted emotion, the vast audience so silent that the click of the wheel, the rattle of ivory chips in the rooms beyond, became plainly audible.  There was inspiration in it likewise, and never before did Beth Norvell more clearly exhibit her native power, her spark of real genius.

Winston found little to do in his department that night, either on or off the stage, as the company expected to spend Sunday in the place.  Consequently, he was only slightly behind the other members of the troupe in attaining the hotel at the conclusion of the evening’s performance.  Indeed, he was earlier than many, for most of the male members had promptly adjourned to the convenient bar-room, with whatsoever small sums of money they could wring from out the reluctant palm of Albrecht.  Winston chanced to pause for a moment at the cigar stand to exchange a pleasant good-night word with the seemingly genial clerk.

“You one of the actors?” questioned the latter, exhibiting some slight interest.