“Oh, shut up,” said Henry, affectionately.
Through the jostling, good-natured crowd which blocked the sidewalk in front of the Orpheum Theatre, that Sunday at two o’clock, a policeman in uniform pushed his way to the ticket-booth. “Where’s the manager?”
The ticket-seller bobbed her head backwards. “First door on the left.”
The policeman stalked through the lobby, and found the door; knocked belligerently, and stepped inside. “You the manager? Well, 132 there ain’t goin’ to be no show today, see?”
Henry jumped to his feet. “What’s that?”
“You heard what I said. No show. Close up your theatre and call it a day.”
Henry turned, for moral support, to his wife: she had already hurried to his side. “What’s all this, Mr. Officer?” she asked, unsteadily.
“It’s police orders; that’s what it is, young lady.”
She seized Henry’s hand. “But––but when we’ve––why, you don’t really mean it, do you?”