Jim paused to inquire if there had been any trouble there that evening.
“Well,” said the policeman, “there’s two talking-clubs that chew the rag in that joint. It’s the Reds’ night, but wan o’ the ladies of the other club showed up––Miss Dumont––and the Reds yonder was all for chasing her out. So we run in a couple of ’em––that feller Sondheim and another called Bromberg. They’re wanted, anyhow, in Philadelphia.”
“Is there a meeting inside?”
“Sure. The young lady went in to settle it peaceful like; and she’s inside now jawin’ at them Reds to beat a pink tea.”
“Do you apprehend any violence?” asked Jim uneasily.
The policeman juggled his club and eyed him. “I––guess––not,” he drawled. And, to the jabbering, wrangling crowd on pavement and steps: “––Hey, you! Go in or stay out, one or the other, now! Step lively; you’re blockin’ the sidewalk.”
A number of people mounted the steps and went in 353 with Jim. As the doors to the hall opened, a flare of smoky light struck him, and he pushed his way into the hall, where a restless, murmuring audience, some seated, others standing, was watching a number of men and women on the rostrum.
There seemed to be more wrangling going on there––knots of people disputing and apparently quite oblivious of the audience.
And almost immediately he caught sight of Palla on the platform. But even before he could take a step forward in the crowded aisle, he saw her force her way out of an excited group of people and come to the edge of the platform, lifting a slim hand for silence.
“Put her out!” shouted some man’s voice. A dozen other voices bawled out incoherencies; Palla waited; and after a moment or two there were no further interruptions.