In a front orchestra seat a man stood up waving a flag and bawling:
“Standish! Standish! We want STANDISH!”
The rest of Billy Shevlin’s carefully drilled cohorts took up the cry, and it was chanted a hundred times to the accompaniment of resounding sticks and boot heels.
The mayor beckoned a deputy sheriff from the wings. Pointing to the front-seat ringleader he commanded:
“Put that fellow out.”
The deputy descended the steps to the orchestra, grabbed the vociferating enthusiast by the collar and started to propel him up the aisle. In an instant, as though the action were a signal, every sound ceased. The house was as still as death. And through the silence soared the shrill, penetrating protest of the man who had just been collared.
“You leave me be!” he yelled. “I’ve got as much right here as you have. An’ I’m earnin’ my money.”
“What money!” shouted a trained querist in the gallery.
“The cash Mr. Standish promised me for leadin’ the applause, of course. He’s payin’ me an’ the rest of the boys good, an’ we’re goin’ to earn our dough. Standish! Standish! We want——”
Then pandemonium broke loose. Hundreds of voices caught up the rhythmic refrain, while hundreds more shrieked “Fake!” and a counter rhythm arose of