In a word, the Polka was a marvellous tribute to its girl-proprietor's
sense of domesticity. Nothing that could insure the comfort for her
patrons was omitted. Nothing, it would seem, could occur that would
disturb the harmonious aspect of the scene.

But alas! the night was yet young.

Now the moment for which not a few of that good-humoured and
musically-inclined company were waiting arrived. Clear above the babel
of voices sounded a chord, and the poor old concertina player began
singing in a voice that was as wheezy as his instrument:


"Camp town ladies sing this song
Dooda! Dooda!
Camp town race track five miles long
Dooda! Dooda! Day!"


Throughout the solo nothing more nerve-racking or explosive than an
occasional hilarious whoop punctuated the melody. For once, at any rate,
it seemed likely to go the distance; but no sooner did the chorus, which
had been taken up, to a man, by the motley crowd and was rip-roaring
along at a great rate, reach the second line than there sounded the
reports of a fusillade of gun-shots from the direction of the street.
The effect was magical: every voice trailed off into uncertainty and
then ceased.

Instantly the atmosphere became charged with tension; a hush fell upon