silence fell.  She was the oracle of the crowd.  At nine o’clock Arthur’s head ached.  He had smoked all his Turkish cigarettes, the odour of which caused some surprise—­there was a capitalist present and they knew him.  Only Yetta prevented disagreeable comment.  The men, who belonged to the proletarian class, were poorly dressed and intelligent; the women wore shawls on their heads and smoked bad cigarettes.  The saloon did not smell nice, Arthur thought.  He had offered Yetta one of his imported cigarettes, but she lighted a horrible weed and blew the smoke in his face.

At ten o’clock he wished himself away.  But a short, stout man with a lopsided face showing through his tangled beard, stood up and said in German:—­

“All who are not our friends, please leave the house.”

No one stirred.  The patron went from group to group saluting his customers and eying those who were not.  Whether any password or signal was given Arthur could not say.  When the blond, good-natured Schwab reached him, Yetta whispered in his ear.  The host beamed on the young American and gave him a friendly poke in the back; Arthur felt as if he had been knighted.  He said this to Yetta, but her attention was elsewhere.  The doors and windows were quickly shut and bolted.  She nudged his elbow—­for they were sitting six at the table, much to his disgust; the other four drank noisily—­and he followed her to the top of the room.  A babble broke out as they moved along.

“It’s Yetta’s new catch.  Yetta’s rich fellow.  Wait until she gets through with him—­poor devil.”  These broken phrases made him shiver, especially as Yetta’s expression, at first enigmatic, was now openly sardonic.  What did she mean?  Was she only tormenting him?  Was this to be his test, his trial?  His head was almost splitting, for the heat was great and the air bad.  Again he wished himself home.

They reached the platform.  “Jump up, Arthur, and help me,” she commanded.  He did so.  But his discomfiture only grew apace with the increased heat—­the dingy ceiling crushed him—­and the rows in front, the entire floor seemed transformed to eyes, malicious eyes.  She told him to sit down at the piano and play the Marseillaise.  Then standing before the table she drew from her bosom a scarlet flag, and accompanied by the enthusiastic shoutings she led the singing.  Arthur at the keyboard felt exalted.  Forgotten the pains of a moment before.  He hammered the keys vigorously, extorting from the battered instrument a series of curious croakings.  Some of the keys did not “speak,” some gave forth a brazen clangour from the rusty wires.  No one cared.  The singing stopped with the last verse.

“Now La Ravachole for our French brethren.”  This combination of revolutionary lyrics—­Ca Ira and Carmagnole—­was chanted fervidly.  Then came for the benefit of the German the stirring measures from the Scotch-German John Henry Mackay’s Sturm:—­