“You’re certainly going to have a crowd.”
Wint nodded. He was beginning to be nervous. He realized that this was going to be hard.
But it was only when they turned the last corner and started down the hill toward the Rink that he realized just how hard it was going to be. It seemed to him all Hardiston was there ahead of him. The crowd clustered in front of the Rink and extended out into the street; and more were coming from each direction. Mrs. Hullis and Mrs. Chase, ahead, were lost in the throng. Wint stopped; he turned to his father.
“We’ll cut through the back way,” he said.
Chase agreed; and they turned down an alley, and came circuitously to the stage door and went in. The minute he came inside the door, he heard the hum and buzz of voices. He could see out on the stage, with its stock set of a farmyard scene. There were chairs, and a table.
Amos, and Sam O’Brien, and B. B. and two or three others were waiting just inside the stage door; and Sam gripped Wint’s shoulders and exclaimed: “Lord, but you give us a scare, Wint. Thought you wasn’t coming. I was all set to go fetch you.”
“Oh, I was coming, all right,” Wint said nervously, one ear attuned to the murmur of the crowd. “Sounds as though there were a lot of people here.”
“Every seat, and standing room in the aisles, and half of ’em can’t get in.”
Wint grinned weakly. “And I suppose they’ve got every rotten egg in town.”
Sam stared; then he howled. “Rotten egg! Oh, Lord, Wint, you’ll be the death of me. I’ll die a-laughing. Rotten egg!” He turned to Amos. “Wint says rotten egg!” he cried.