Already the “Battle of Paris” was on. In the Streets of Paris someone had thrown a bottle through a mirror. At once a hundred bottles were dying, a hundred windows crashing. With wild abandon the throng surged back and forth along the narrow streets.
All this was quite unknown to our friends. They had not come to revel but to bid a fond farewell to a spot they had learned to love. The Sky Ride, the shimmering waters of the lagoon, Hollywood, Rutledge Tavern—a hundred little corners had played a part in the lives of Florence and Jeanne.
For all this, the spirit of the mob gripped them and, grasping one another by the shoulders that they might not be separated, they surged on through the crowd.
“One wild night!” Florence screamed.
“And it’s not yet begun!” Willie, who was in the lead, called back.
The Streets of Paris was not the only spot where revelers, getting out of bounds, were rushing shops and collecting souvenirs.
“Come down from there!” shouted a policeman as a large fat man climbed to the top of a shop-keeper’s shelves for some treasure.
“Come and get me!” The fat man brandished a cane. The crowd roared applause.
Three burly policemen marched upon him. One seized his cane, the others caught him by his massive legs, and down he came. Once again the crowd roared. On this night of nights, one moment you were a hero and the next you were forgotten.
Like great armies of rats, this human throng burrowed in everywhere. A barrel of rootbeer was turned half over, glasses seized and a toast drunk to the departing Fair. When the barrel was drained a long, lank individual sat astride it. Three men gave the barrel a push. Barrel and man went rolling and bouncing down a steep incline and on into the lagoon.