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. Nobody's ever--" He held up his hand in warning. "That's _all_ right, young lady. If you're his daughter, you oughter keep on the right side o' the law. It won't do you no good to bicker about it neither--you go in there an' tell your audience to get their money back, an' go on home." Henry picked up his cigarette. He had no craving to smoke, but he didn't want Anna to see that his lips were trembling. "Well," he said, "there goes the old ball-game. And we've sold every seat in the house, and thrown away three hundred dollar's worth of souvenirs, and the sidewalk's full of people waiting for the second show.... Knockout Mix beats Battling Devereux in the first round." He did his best to smile, but the results were poor. "And when we held off three days just so we could start on Sunday with a grand smash!" "Get a move on, young feller. If the show begins, you're pinched, see? You go in there and do what I told you." From within there was a sudden rattle of applause. Anna gripped her husband's arm. "It's ... it's begun already," she said, breathlessly. The policeman stepped forward. "You heard me tell you to stop it, didn't you? What are you tryin' to do--play horse with me? Now you go in there an' _stop_ it, and then you come along with me an' explain it to the Judge. See? Now, get a wiggle on." CHAPTER IX From the moment that he went out upon the little stage of his theatre until he came wearily into his own apartment at five o'clock, Henry lived upon a mental plane so far removed from his usual existence that he was hardly aware of any bodily sensations at all. A brand-new group of emotions had picked him out for their play-ground, and Henry had no time to be self-conscious. In the first place, he was too stunned to remember that he hated to be conspicuous, and that he had never made a public speech in all his life. He was paralyzed by the contrast between last night and today. Consequently, he made a very good speech indeed, and it had some acrid humour in it, too, and the audience actually cheered him--although later, when he reviewed the incident in his mind, he had to admit that the cheers were loudest just after he had told the audience to keep the souvenirs.