"Easy to do, too."

"I can't see it. But if they go up to the Governor, with a pet.i.tion to investigate--and the state law's pretty rough--and start impeachment proceedings--"

The Chief spat contemptuously. "Shucks, give 'em rope."

"Well--_how_?"

"Why, _enforce_ the d.a.m.n' law--just once. Spike Mix's guns--he's only doin' this on a bluff. Guess he wants the reform vote for Council, or somethin'. Keep it under our bonnets, and send out a squad of patrolman Sunday afternoon to raid every theatre in town. Bat 'em over the head before they know it. I wouldn't even tell my own men 'till I lined 'em up and give 'em their orders. Then listen for the public to holler."

The Mayor had broken into a high-pitched laugh; he stopped abruptly.

"How many people'd there be in all the houses put together?"

"Six thousand. Five of 'em at the movies."

"They'd start a riot!"

"Oh, I wouldn't pinch the audiences; just the managers, and bust up the shows. _Then_ you'd find out if the people want that law or not.

We say they don't, but how do we know? Let's find out."

The Mayor sat down at his desk, and began to chuckle. "Chief, that's a bully idea--but what'd happen on Monday?"

"Happen? When, five, six thousand voters got put out in the street and their Sunday afternoon spoiled? Fellows with girls--Pa takin' the family out for a treat--factory hands? They'd be a howlin' mob in the Council chamber on Monday mornin'; that's what'd happen. And _one_ d.a.m.n fool law'd be fixed so's the Police Department'd know how to handle it."

"It's pa.s.sing the buck!" murmured the Mayor, ecstatically. "It's pa.s.sing the buck right to the people, by George!"

"Sure. Do we go ahead with it? Want anybody tipped off?"

The Mayor was hugging his knees ecstatically. "No, we'll make a clean sweep. No favourites. The bigger haul the better. All the boys'll understand. Keep it dead under your hat. We'll talk over the details tomorrow." Chuckling, he leaned back and opened his arms wide, his fists closed. "Rope!" he said. "Rope! Chief, we'll give 'em a hawser!"

On Sat.u.r.day evening, Henry gave a special invitation performance, to which only his personal friends and Anna's were bidden, and if he had cherished any lingering doubt of his place in society, it must have been removed that night. His friends didn't know the details of the Starkweather trust fund, but they knew that Henry's future was lashed to his success with the Orpheum, and they came to help tie the knot.

Naturally, since the auditorium was filled with young people who had grown up together, and with a few older people who had helped to bring them up, there was plenty of informality--indeed, a large part of it had been scheduled and rehea.r.s.ed in advance. Henry didn't have to ask any questions; he knew that Bob Standish was responsible.

With Anna beside him, he had stood for thirty minutes in the foyer, to receive his guests, and as smile after smile encouraged him, and he heard the steady stream of sincere good-wishes, Henry began to grow curiously warm in the region of his heart, and curiously weak in the knees. Anna moved closer to him.

"I told you so," she whispered. "I told you so. Everybody loves you."

"It isn't me," he whispered back, with ungrammatical fervour. "It's you."

They stood together, then, at the rear of the house, to watch the high-jinks going on in front. Standish had ousted the three-piece orchestra, and taken over the piano; two other volunteers had flanked him, and the revelry began with a favourite ditty to proclaim that all reports to the contrary notwithstanding, Henry was style all the while, all the while.

Then, suddenly, there were loud shouts for Henry and Anna, and they were seized and dragged to the top of the centre aisle. Standish swung into the Mendelssohn Wedding March, and through a haze of rose-leaf confetti and paper streamers, the two Devereuxs were forced down to the orchestra-pit. The house was on its feet to them, and Anna, half-laughing, half-crying with happiness, was sorting confetti out of her hair when Standish clambered up on the stage, and waved for silence.

"Listen, everybody.... Old Hank Devereux and wife tried to save the price of a caterer, last spring, and they got away with it. Alas, Hank's a jealous bird, and he was afraid somebody'd kiss the bride.

Furthermore, Anna didn't want to get any wedding presents, because they clutter up the house so. And when most of your friends live in the same town, it's hard to get rid of the stuff you don't want. So they buncoed us out of a party. Well, so far we've given 'em Mendelssohn and confetti. Any lady or gent who now desires to kiss the bride, please rise and come forward.... Hey, there! This isn't any Sinn Fein sociable! Ceremony's postponed!... And finally, dearly beloved brethren and sistren, we come to the subject of wedding gifts." He turned to look down at the Devereuxs, and some of the levity went out of his voice. "We thought we'd bring you a little something for good-luck, old man. It's from all of us. Hope you like it. If you don't, you can swap it for a few tons of coal.... There she comes!"

It was a magnificent silver tea-service, borne down the aisle by the two men who, next to Standish, were Henry's best friends.

Anna was utterly speechless, and Henry was coughing diligently. The service was placed on the piano; Henry touched the cool smoothness of a cream-jug, and tried to crystallize his thought into coherence.

The applause had died away; the house was quiet, expectant. From the rear, a man's voice said: "It isn't like a golf championship trophy, old man--you don't have to win it three times--it's all yours."

In the shriek of laughter which followed, Henry, with Anna in tow, fled to shelter. "Lights!" said Henry. Abruptly, the auditorium was dim. And with Anna holding tight to his fingers, he sat down in the furthest corner, and trembled.

For the next two hours, Standish, who was on one of his periodical fits of comedy, stuck to his piano, and dominated the evening. He played grotesquely inappropriate melodies, he commanded singing, once he stopped the show and with the a.s.sistance of a dozen recruits put on the burlesque of an amateur night at a music-hall. He made the occasion a historical event, and when at last it was over, and the guests were filing out to the lobby, he came to Henry and held out his hand.

"Big-time, Henry, big-time," he said. "See? They're all with you."

Henry cleared his throat. "You're a peach, Bob. You got it up."

"Oh, it wasn't anything." Standish's cloak of comedy had fallen away; he looked as lazy, and as innocent and childlike as ever. "Before I go--I had a letter today from one of the big movie circuit crowd.

They'll pay you thirty-seven thousand five hundred cash for the Orpheum. I've got a certified check for a thousand to bind the bargain. Want it?"

Henry didn't even glance at it. "Put it back in your pocket, Bob. I wouldn't sell it for ten times that--not after tonight."

His friend smiled very faintly. "It's a good price, if you care to get out from under. Between you and me, I think it's more than the Orpheum's worth."

"Don't want it," said Henry gruffly.

Standish gazed with vast innocence at Anna. "Third and last chance, Henry. Otherwise, I'll mail it back tonight. Just a few hours from now this place, right where we're standing, 'll look like a sardine-can come to life, and you'll be taking in money hand over fist, and you'll be branded forever as--"

"Oh, shut up," said Henry, affectionately.

Through the jostling, good-natured crowd which blocked the sidewalk in front of the Orpheum Theatre, that Sunday at two o'clock, a policeman in uniform pushed his way to the ticket-booth. "Where's the manager?"

The ticket-seller bobbed her head backwards. "First door on the left."

The policeman stalked through the lobby, and found the door; knocked belligerently, and stepped inside. "You the manager? Well, there ain't goin' to be no show today, see?"

Henry jumped to his feet. "What's that?"

"You heard what I said. No show. Close up your theatre and call it a day."

Henry turned, for moral support, to his wife: she had already hurried to his side. "What's all this, Mr. Officer?" she asked, unsteadily.

"It's police orders; that's what it is, young lady."

She seized Henry's hand. "But--but when we've--why, you don't really _mean_ it, do you?"

He dug into his pocket, and produced a tattered, dog-eared pamphlet, folded open at one of the early pages. He read aloud, slowly: "'Whosoever shall fail in the strict observance o' the Lord's Day by any unseemly act, speech, or carriage, or whosoever shall engage in any manner o' diversion or profane occupation for profit--'"

Anna, holding tight to Henry's hand, knew that argument was futile, but she was a woman, and she had a husband to defend. Her heart was leaden, but her voice was stout with indignation.

"But Mr. Policeman! Do you know who I am? I'm Judge Barklay's daughter. _I_ know all about that ordinance. n.o.body's ever--"