“A thousand is a good crowd for a fair night,” he persisted.
“And how much can they average per head?” I continued.
“Oh, not more than twentyfive cents. The seats run fifteen, twentyfive, thirtyfive and fifty cents.”
“Then say they average forty cents,” I said to myself. “That would mean that they took in four hundred dollars at a single performance—or if there are two a day, between seven and eight hundred dollars a day. And this one singer costs them eight hundred.”
I saw the horns and hoofs of the ubiquitous press agent.
“Do you think that Madame Scherzo gets the sum they say she does?” I asked of this same bookstore man, wondering whether he was taken in by their announcement. He looked fairly intelligent.
“Yes, indeed! She comes from the Metropolitan Opera House. I don’t suppose she’d come out here for any less than that.”
I wondered whether he intended this as a reflection on Indiana or a compliment to North Manchester. It was a little dubious.
“Well, that’s a good deal for a tent that only seats fifteen hundred,” I replied.
“But you don’t want to forget that they play to two audiences a day,” he returned solemnly, as though he had solved it all.