At one o'clock there still was not a soul in the house nor a nickel in the treasury. Not even the complimentaries distributed by the advance man had been offered at the door. We reversed the canvas, painting the joyful tidings that the matinée of this sensational drama, fresh from one hundred frenzied nights at Booth's Theater, New York, would positively be given at two o'clock, come one, come all, and sent our sandwich man forth with his bell to weave and ring again. At two o'clock not even the traditional boy and a dog—and the matinée was called off.
At the night performance fifty-three dollars was taken in at the box office, every cent of it drunk and demonstrative. The theater was an old-fashioned opera house, the first floor of the house on the second floor of the building. A flight of broad wooden steps led up from the street to the box office and the lobby. The house was still standing when I was there three years ago.
During the first act a belated citizen stumbled up the long flight of steps, slapped a quarter down at the window and demanded the best seat in the house.
The volunteer who was substituting at the
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