Some minutes before eight, Julius reached the “Grand Duke’s Oprea House.” It is very eligibly located on Baxter Street not far from the famous Five Points. Perhaps in consequence of the filthy condition of the streets in the immediate neighborhood, visitors are not expected to appear in full dress, and nothing is more common than for the young gentlemen who patronize it to dispense with coat or vest, or both. As for kid gloves, these are not tolerated at the _Oprea_ House, and a fellow who indulged in them would be regarded as “puttin’ on airs,” and probably be hustled out unceremoniously, as guilty of a gross insult to the rest of the spectators.
The entrance to the Grand Duke theatre is not imposing. In fact, the visitor is obliged to descend a shaky staircase into a cellar about ten feet below the level of the sidewalk.
“It’s like goin’ down into a coal mine,” remarked Julius to Pat Riley, who was acting as his guide.
“That’s so,” said Pat; “but we have jolly fun when we get there.”
Reaching the bottom of the flight of steps, Julius found himself confronted by the ticket seller who was looking out of a square hole, over which were marked the prices of admission.
“That’s where yer pay,” said Pat. “I go in free, coz I’m one of the actors.”
“Five cents,” said the keeper of the box office.
“There it is,” said Julius, who had come provided with the right change.
The treasurer pulled a cord connecting with the door of entrance, and Julius entered.
The _Oprea_ House proved to consist of a room twenty feet by thirty, and six and a half feet high. A portion of this was set apart as a stage, in front of which hung a curtain of turkey-red calico, four breadths wide. On one side was a lofty pillar with a scroll, on which was written the ambitious name of this temple of the muses, “Grand Duke’s Oprea House.” In place of the customary footlights was a kerosene lamp, which with the aid of a concave reflector illuminated the room.
“What do yer think of it, Julius?” asked Pat, with justifiable pride.
Pat pointed to a large broadside of brown packing paper, on which was rudely scrawled:
“BENEFIT OF MILES O’REILLY, The Great Nigger Komedian AND Jig Dancer.”
“That’s me!” said Pat, with professional pride. “It looks big, don’t it?”