th me?" The school yard
lay but a half-block ahead, so he went on hurriedly, "There's Silvey and
the bunch. I've got to see 'em. Meet you on this corner after school."

The truth of the matter was that not even his infatuation was equal to
passing that mob of shouting, yelling urchins with a girl by his side.

You might have guessed that something unusual was to occur, had you
passed Neighborhood Hall that afternoon. By the green mail box on the
corner, an envied seventh-grade boy, subsidized by an offer of free
admission, passed out more blue cards like the one John had found, and
advised that they be retained, for "Them's got programs on, and you'll
need 'em." On the broad pavement, excited little groups of boys read and
reread the announcements amid running choruses of approving comment. Now
and then, a fussy, important matron bustled past with a four-or
five-year-old following in her wake. Around the door, a baker's dozen of
boys with shaggy hair and sadly worn clothes besought the more
prosperous of the grown-ups, "Take us in, Mister [or "Missis" as the
case might be], we ain't got no dime."

Inside the great, raftered, brilliantly lighted hall were rows upon rows
of collapsible chairs, which slid and scraped on the slippery dance
floor as their owners took possession of them. John and Louise secured
seats in the third row, center, where they commanded an excellent view
of the tall, black cabinet where Punch and his family were soon to
appear. Around them, a babel of noise and confusion held sway. The place
was filling rapidly. Boys called to each other from opposite corners of
the room. A not infrequent shout of surprised anger arose as a seated
juvenile clattered to the floor through the agency of some
mischief-maker in his rear. Eighth-grade patriarchs, retained by the
same pay as the corner advance agent, darted here and there in the
aisles, striving to preserve order amid a great show of authority. Up on
the little balconies at each side groups of trouble-makers performed
gymnastics on the railings and banisters at seeming peril of their lives
until the colored janitor ordered them down. Every now and then, the
wailing of a heated, irritable infant rose above the din, to be quieted
more or less angrily by its mother.

John looked at his watch. "Most time to start," he whispered.

Indeed, the audience was beginning to grow restless. In the rear rows, a
claque started a steady handclapping, and cat-calls and