The others laughed.
At the far end of the entry stood a pair of half doors so arranged that only one person could pass them at a time. Behind these, bathed in a glare of yellow light from a cluster of gas jets which hung directly overhead, stood Danny Casey, attired in a dress suit rented from Goldstine the costumer, a huge crimson badge edged with gold braid hanging from his lapel. He was taking tickets and deftly slipping them into a slot in a tin box which stood beside him on a chair; on the stairs leading to the ballroom, a man with a mass of brass checks hanging by strings from his fingers was keeping up a continuous fire of patter. Murphy and McGonagle, feeling rather queer behind their glittering expanses of shirt front, walked stiffly down the steps to where Casey was standing.
“A mob!” said McGonagle. “The floor’s blocked with ’em already.”
“And they’ve on’y started to come,” said Casey. “Who ordered the extree beer?”
“McGlory: an’ we’ll need it, too; for the guys what’s a-comin’ in looks dead t’irsty.”
“Say,” put in Murphy, in an injured tone, “I don’t know how youse people take it but I feel like a sign for a clothin’ store. I can’t bend wit’out breakin’ me shirt and the pants ain’t got no pockets in.”
“You look,” commented McGonagle, “like a dressed up prize-fighter. Somebody ought to slam McGlory in the jaw for makin’ that motion that we all must wear dress suits. I know I look a mess in mine.”
“Thirty-eight dress suits at a dollar a throw,” figured Casey, as he politely plucked ticket after ticket from hands extending them to him; “that’s thirty-eight plunks. Goldstine’s makin’ money and McGlory will be holdin’ him up for a comish.”
There was a stir among the sack-coated and high-collared coterie at the entrance. A tall, well-built girl, tastefully dressed and carrying herself with a dashing air, had come in, escorted by a blushing youth who looked very uncomfortable under the notice they created.
“It’s Nelly Fogarty,” said someone. “She don’t look like a poverty knocker when she’s dressed up, eh?”