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SHOWMAN
brother in the third row— and not a soul in the audience paying any attention to the presence in the house of the Democratic candidate. That obviously wasn't right. I thought it over and took steps.
I called up the leading lady of the company, a charming little Highland Scotch girl named Molly Mclntyre— that cast had been imported bodily from Scotland— pointed out Mr. Wilson through the peephole and gave her instructions. Then I sent round a boy to a florist's to buy a bunch of heather. The florist had never even heard of heather and a bunch of violets was the best he could do as a substitute. But that was all right. Dandelions would have worked just as well.
At the end of the second act Miss Mclntyre went on for her curtain call and then, while I held the curtain, she leaned over the footlights, smiled straight at Mr. Wilson and tossed the violets neatly into his lap:
"To a wee bonnie laddie, the next president of the United States," she said. The house looked at the place where the violets had landed, gasped, and broke into a storm of applause. Then they got to their feet, cheering wildly, and ladies in the boxes began taking off their corsages and throwing them at Mr. Wilson to supplement the violets. He just smiled and remained seated, which made them wilder than ever. At the end of the performance it took half an hour to clear the house because every customer in the place insisted on going up and shaking hands with the great man.
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