The Man in the Queue

It was between seven and eight o'clock on a March evening, and all over
London the bars were being drawn back from pit and gallery doors. Bang,
thud, and clank. Grim sounds to preface an evening's amusement. But no
last trump could have so galvanized the weary attendants on Thespis and
Terpsichore standing in patient column of four before the gates of
promise. Here and there, of course, there was no column. At the Irving,
five people spread themselves over the two steps and sacrificed in warmth
wh...