“A beautiful building,” I said to my old-time friend, Maurice J. Pass, the Secretary of the Club.
He smiled in satisfaction and replied, “Well, we seldom let things go by default—you have tonight as fine an audience as ever assembled in New Orleans.”
We passed down a side hallway and under the stage, preparatory to going on the platform. In this room below the stage a single electric light shone. The place was dark and dingy, in singular contrast to the beauty, light, cleanliness and order just beyond. In the corner were tables piled high—evidently used for banquets—broken furniture and discarded boxes.
Several smart young men in full dress sat on the tables smoking cigarettes. One young man said in explanation, “We were crowded out—had to give up our seats to ladies—so we are going to sit on the stage.”
The soft blue smoke from the cigarettes seemed to hug close about the lonely electric light.
I saw the smoke and thought that beside the odor of tobacco I detected the smell of smoldering pine.
“Isn’t it a trifle smoky here?” I said to the young man nearest me.
He laughed at this remark and handed me a cigarette.
The Secretary of the Club and I went up the narrow stairs to the stage. As we stood there behind the curtain I looked at the pleasant-faced man. “You didn’t detect the odor of burning wood down there, did you?” I asked.
“No; but you see the windows are open, and there are bonfires outside, I suppose.”