Yet he proved a poor prophet. By quarter of two nearly every one of the more than twenty thousand seats for spectators had been filled. Five minutes after that not a seat could be had, even by squeezing. Just before two o'clock ten thousand more spectators had crowded in, standing wherever they could find the space.
Outside the crowd still pressed. Thousands simply had to be turned away.
Every officer present now wore a quiet smile that hid his delight under an orderly appearance.
"I wonder if the circus has a crowd like this?" gasped Sergeant Hupner, his astonished gaze roving over the densely packed masses of humanity.
An artillery band was playing at its loudest and gayest.
"I wonder," repeated Sergeant Hupner, "if the circus is playing to a crush like this."
No; it wasn't. Over under the Howe and Spangleton big-top, with its plain and reserved seats for eighteen thousand people, consternation prevailed.
The Army had proved the winning attraction for Denver's amusement-seeking crowds!
Only some eleven hundred and fifty people had paid to see the afternoon performance at the circus. In chagrin, the management hurriedly passed in free some two hundred more loungers on the lot.
"I never even dreamed of a streak of luck like this!" grumbled Proprietor Howe to his partner, Spangleton.