And last of all, the ushers and the doorman in bright blue uniforms with gold braid and buttons.
By ten minutes after nine all was in readiness: the lights blazing, the film threaded properly, the orchestra tuning up, popcorn popping and filling the lobby with its tantalizing smell; and, most important, a special ramp was snubbed up tight against the stage. To test it, the manager stomped up the ramp and stomped back down again as if he were a whole cavalcade of horses. "Solid as the Brooklyn Bridge!" he said in satisfaction.
By nine-fifteen the ushers took their posts, the doorman opened the plate-glass doors, and down in the pit the orchestra began playing "Pony Boy, Pony Boy, won't you be my Pony Boy?" At the same time the pretty cashier climbed to her perch in her glass cage.
By nine-sixteen she was looking out the porthole saying, "How many, please?" "Thank you." "How many, please?" "Thank you." Her fingers flew to make change and tear off the right number of tickets.
No one, not even the manager, was prepared for the swarms of people coming all at once—Boy Scouts and Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts and Brownies, Campfire Girls and Bluebirds, classes from schools, from churches, from orphanages, families of eight and ten, with neighbor children in tow. It was a human river, so noisy with shuffling and shouting that even the drums in the orchestra could scarcely be heard.
By nine-forty every seat on the first floor was taken. By nine-fifty the balcony was filling up, and by one minute to ten there was not a seat left anywhere, not even in the second balcony. From floor to ceiling the theater was packed.
At the stroke of ten the asbestos curtain went up, the ponderous red velvet curtains parted, and the house lights dimmed, except for the tiny red bulbs at the exits. With a crash of cymbals the music stopped. A hush spread over the theater and rose like heat waves from a midsummer hayfield.