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SHOWMAN
and hours in silence, like condemned criminals. The old fellow opened his face again only when a man who'd already seen what was going on at the Iroquois came tearing in, shouting about his wife and family. I couldn't get anywhere with him— he was all for fighting his way in regardless. The old banker stepped up.
"You'll shut up," he said.
"I've got to get in," replied the fellow. "You don't know who I am. I'm—"
"I don't know who you are," said the old banker, "and I don't care. But if you won't shut up, I'll take care of you the way you deserve." The troublemaker got a squint of the old fellow's shillelagh hanging over his head and quieted down, just in time. If he'd raved on two minutes more, our whole lobbyful would have broken like raw recruits under fire and rushed the door. As it was, they stayed more or less under control till the show was over.
Then the crowd inside began to stream out, most of them chattering about Lackaye's brilliant geniality between acts— a part of the show which they had enjoyed all the more because it was unexpected. The people waiting in the lobby behaved like miners' wives at the mouth of a shaft where there's been an explosion. They peered half-hopefully, half-despairingly in each face as it came out. Now and again a woman would scream out a name and go hang round the neck of somebody she had been afraid she would never see again. As that went on and on, with the audience coming out to face
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