“What’s up?” he asked, the curtain then being down to allow of a change of scene.
“Oh, Gaffington and his crowd are joshing some of the acts.”
“Any row?”
“No, everybody takes it good-naturedly. Bunch of our fellows here to-night.”
“Show any good?”
“Pretty fair. Some of the things are punk. There’s a good number coming—Mazie Fuller—she’s got a new act. And Bodkins—you know the tramp juggler—the one who does things with cigar boxes—he’s coming on next. He’s a scream.”
“Yes, I know him. He’s all right.”
The curtain went up and from the wings came Miss Fuller. She had prospered in vaudeville, it seemed, for she had on a richer costume than the one she wore when she had been so nearly burned to death.
She was well received, and while singing her first number she looked about the house. Presently she caught the eyes of Andy—he had leaned forward in the box, perhaps purposely. Miss Fuller smiled at him, and at once a chorus of cries arose from the students in the different parts of the theater. Up to then, since Andy’s entrance, there had been no commotion. Now it broke out again.
“Oh, get on to that!”