“I wasn’t, but I don’t mind seeing ‘Sans Gene’ again. We can have lots of fun getting tickets.”
So the following Wednesday evening they went into town at ten o’clock, and after a light supper at Marliave’s, insisted upon by Chester and partaken of at his expense, betook themselves to the theatre. They were by no means the first on the scene. Already fully a dozen persons were leaning against the theatre wall and armed with camp stools, mackintoshes and umbrellas.
“We ought to have brought stools,” said Chester. “How silly of me to forget.”
“And I reckon we’ll need umbrellas, too,” added Phillip. “It looks a good deal like rain, don’t you think so?”
Chester did.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’ll go back to the room and get a mackintosh and an umbrella; and maybe I can find a camp stool somewhere.”
So back to college he went, while Phillip made himself number fourteen, or it may have been fifteen, in the line. After awhile the performance let out and the lobby was filled with men and women in evening dress, and the little narrow street became a bedlam as the carriages dashed up for their loads. It was quite interesting and Phillip enjoyed it. But about midnight the excitement waned and the novelty began to wear off. To make matters worse, it began to rain, gently, insistently, and the chill got under his overcoat and set him to shivering. Now and then a waiter left the line and tramped about and swung his arms, his claim to his position being respected by the rest. Most of them, Phillip concluded, were speculators, though here and there stood one who was evidently, like himself, present from motives of economy. Phillip wondered what had become of Chester, and longed greatly for the promised umbrella and mackintosh. But at one o’clock Chester was still absent and Phillip gave up hoping for him. By that hour the throng had increased to fully half a hundred. Now and then a policeman strolled by, and once a vendor of sandwiches and coffee appeared and did a rushing business.
But it was tiresome, miserable work. Phillip was wet and sleepy and cold. If it hadn’t been for Betty he would have given up long before the interminable night was over and gone home to bed. As it was, however, he stuck it out. When daylight came and the electric lamps grew dimmer and dimmer and finally flickered out he felt weak and dizzy, and the second repast of coffee and sandwiches failed to comfort him. At eight o’clock the line stretched the length of the street and an army of small speculators were offering to buy positions at the head. At half past nine he was on his way back to Cambridge, the three dearly bought slips of pasteboard in his pocket, a horrible taste in his mouth, a gone sensation in his stomach and a splitting headache. He went to sleep in the corner of the car and had to be awakened at the square. From thence he tramped across the Yard, sneezing at every third step, and found Chester dressing.
“I’m awfully sorry, Phil,” the latter declared. “I didn’t mean to do it. But I was so darned sleepy when I got back that I just laid down for a moment on the couch—just to get a dozen winks, you know. Well, when I woke up it was half past four, by jingo! Of course there was no use going back to town then, so I took my things off and went to bed. I’m awfully sorry, really!”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied the other. “I think I’ll lie down awhile myself. Wake me in about an hour, will you?”