THE Oaktree Operahouse was unusually crowded. The people of Oaktree are a drama-loving community, and the Watson-Duval Double Star Combination was giving "Hamlet." The manager estimated that there was at least $500 in the house, his prosaic way of summing up the value of the audience from the box-office point of view. There was a good deal more than $500 in the house, from the practical financial view of Gentleman George, known in the adjacent mountains, where he made his headquarters, as the leader of the red-caps. Gentleman Geo had a reputation that branched out into several of the adjoining States. His methods of brigandage were more novel than the unoriginality of his sobriquet would lead you to believe, but then he was not responsible for the adjective.

      Gentleman George visited Oaktree occasionally, but a discreet population refused to recognize him, and the authorities were conveniently unaware of his identity. Hence it was quite in order, as with other personages, that he should attend the performance at the operahouse incog.

      The curtain had fallen on the second act, and the audience was for settling itself back into its seats when a tall, bearded, distinguished-looking gentleman in evening dress appeared before the curtain and made a sign to the audience, begging their attention. The audience craned forward in their seats.

      The man raised an impressive hand and began:

      "Ladies and gentlemen, I trust that I shall have your undivided attention. We are about this evening to vary the programme slightly, and shall, with your kind indulgence, offer a little comedy, part of whose action will take place in the body of the house. I think it well to warn you beforehand that it would be best for you to keep your seats. If you obey this injunction you will be in no danger whatever, but should you become restive serious accidents may happen.

      "Now let me add that it will be impossible for a single person to leave the theater until the finish of the little comedy. If — don't rise from your seats, please — you will look toward the exits you will see that that they are very carefully guarded."

      Eyes were instantly turned to the doors. At each door on the two tiers that included floor and balcony of the little theater stood a resolute-looking man holding a brace of revolvers and wearing a red cap. A tendency to scream on the part of the women was repressed by the impressive hand of the man on the stage, who had this time also donned a red cap.

      "No danger, friends," he called out in an amiable voice. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Gentleman George, and you know my reputation. If you are reasonable you will not be touched; that is to say, you will only be touched mildly, for what valuables you may happen to have upon you. The good people behind the scenes are safe in the hands of my comrades. All communication with the outside is cut off. Every door is guarded. There is not a head in this house that is not covered by a red-cap gun. As long as you sit still you are in no danger, but the moment you try to get gay or stow away any of your goods or put us to any trouble you will hear —"

      The ominous elipsis at the end of the last sentence had all its intended effect.

      "Now that we understand each other." continued the speaker, "our collectors will pass among you, and I trust you will remember that their time is valuable and cannot be wasted on disputes. In the mean time there is no reason why the music should not continue. If you please, Mr. Professor, strike up."

      To the somewhat tremulous music of the piano three men moved systematically through the lower floor of the theater, each one carrying, slung over his shoulder, a large leather bag, such as is carried by postmen, while three others similarly equipped, went at the same time through the balcony.

      "Ladies may keep their wedding rings," called out the chief robber, who shouted out from time to time orders to his men and to the audience from the stage.

      "Please, sir, may I keep this? It was my mother's," said a young girl in a tremulous voice from the balcony as she held up a small brooch in her hand for Gentleman George to see.

      "Certainly, my child. Jim, see that the young lady keeps her brooch."

      Presently requests of various kinds began to come from all parts of the house. In some cases the requests were granted immediately, others as curtly refused, and still others compromised. Some citizens were allowed to keep trinkets they valued by giving an "I.O.U." for their value. this unexpected turn to the proceedings gave the affair a flavor of the auction-room, and in the excitement, coupled with the peeps into the heart secrets of others, the women forgot in a great measure their fright. This result was greatly contributed to by the good-natured way in which the thieves did their robbing.

      "Now, my friends," said Gentleman George, after a pause, "everything seems to be moving serenely, and while the rest of the collection is being made, with hour kind permission I will endeavour to entertain you with a little song. Can you accompany me in 'The Suwanee River,' professor?"

      "Certainly, sir."

      "If you please then."

      In a sweet, rich, tenor voice the brigand began the old song. The audience listened in amazement, and as he finished the first verse, filled the house with genuine applause.

      By the time the song was finished the collectors had completed their work, and only the guards on the doors remained. The leader again raised his hand for silence.

      "Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "I thank you for your kind attention. Our little comedy has passed off successfully, and now, before we wind up, let me give you a few final instructions. Our guards are still outside the various doors and shall remain there until we have a good start. That will be let us say, fifteen minutes. Any one who attempts to leave before that time will be shot dead at the door — and you know I have a habit of keeping my word. To simplify matters I intend to place this alarm clock" — here he held up an alarm clock, which was handed to him from the wings, to the view of the audience — "here on this table. It is set to go off at ll o'clock. Don't leave your seats until you hear it. If you do —"

      Before the sentence was finished Gentleman George had vanished.

      The people in the house looked at one another wonderingly. No one dared to be the first to tempt fate by getting up and leaving the theater. Yet each man there believed that the threat was a "bluff," intended to give the robbers a chance to get safely away. They were disinclined, however, to put their belief to the test, and no one stirred. While matters were still in this indeterminate state a piercing cry of "Fire" rang out throughout the house, and was immediately taken up on several sides.

      The managers of the theater at this outcry rushed on the stage and shouted words meant to be calming to the audience. They succeeded in a measure in allaying the panic which was beginning to get under way, but many people overwrought by the evening's happenings rushed from the theater out into the street. Then it was discovered conclusively that there was no fire, but that the scare raised by the cry had added to the start already gained by Gentleman George and his band.

      By noon on the day following the Sheriff was ready to start for the haunts of Gentleman George with a strong posse, when the Mayor sent for him, and read this letter, found on his doorstep that morning.

      Dear Mr. Mayor: A dastardly outrage has been perpetrated on my good name and incidentally on the people of your city by the ruffians who held up the operahouse last night. The person calling himself Gentleman George was only an impersonator. I believe I know the scoundrel, and by the time you receive this, myself and a few trusty comrades will be on his trail. The good citizens of Oaktree cannot be more grieved than I am over the regrettable occurrence of last evening. To show you that I was not the man who held up the operahouse, I enclose you my latest photograph, made in San Francisco: You can depend upon it that the evildoers of last night will be brought to justice,

Yours in good faith, GENTLEMAN GEORGE.

      The Sheriff did not like the cool, impertinent tone of the letter, and thought that, owing to his long immunity, Gentleman George was inclined to jest with the township. The Mayor thought differently. It was, he said, a very courteous note, and he could not see that it in any way reflected on the town. Sides were taken, and the next election was fought out largely on the question of the good faith or otherwise of Gentleman George. Though the election went in favor of the Mayor and the upholders of Gentleman George, to this day it has not been determined whether or not it was that polished bandit who had held up the operahouse.

(Copyright, 1901, by A. S. Richardson.)