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SHOWMAN
Harry Powers, the manager there, was running over with exultation:
"Come on in, Bill," he said to me. "I want to show you what a real house looks like," and took me into the back of a stage-box. Foy was on stage doing a monologue. He walked over to the box and said: "Happy New Year, Bill," and I said, "Same to you, Eddie," and then turned and looked up into the house, jammed to the ceiling with children and young boys and girls and their parents celebrating the holidays.
"We've got just as good a house at the Garrick," I told Powers, "but it won't come to so much money," shook hands with him and strolled out of the theater. I wasn't a hundred feet down the sidewalk when a man came tearing past me, gasping in the cold, and shouting:
"The Iroquois Theater's on fire!"
I turned and ran back. A glance into the box-office showed a queer thing— the treasurer and his assistant frantically packing up money and tickets, paying no attention to what might be going on inside. But that was natural in men whose responsibility for money was their whole profession. Besides, nobody could have realized quite how quickly the worst would happen. By the time I was back in the foyer, which I'd left only a few minutes before, the whole story of the tragedy was already told. The two-story plate-glass screen that separated the auditorium from the foyer was burst at the top and a roaring loop of flame was shooting out
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