ny?"

"Then--you don't know?"

"Not exactly. I've heard of them, in a vague fashion."

"Then you've missed one of the sights of Boston if you haven't ever
seen that long line of patient waiters at the door of Symphony Hall of a
Friday morning."

"Morning! But the concert isn't till afternoon!"

"No, but the waiting is," retorted Arkwright. "You see, those admissions
are limited--five hundred and five, I believe--and they're rush seats,
at that. First come, first served; and if you're too late you aren't
served at all. So the first arrival comes bright and early. I've heard
that he has been known to come at peep of day when there's a Paderewski
or a Melba for a drawing card. But I've got my doubts of that. Anyhow,
I never saw them there much before half-past eight. But many's the cold,
stormy day I've seen those steps in front of the Hall packed for hours,
and a long line reaching away up the avenue."

Billy's eyes widened.

"And they'll stand all that time and wait?"

"To be sure they will. You see, each pays twenty-five cents at the door,
until the limit is reached, then the rest are turned away. Naturally
they don't want to be turned away, so they try to get there early enough
to be among the fortunate five hundred and five. Besides, the earlier
you are, the better seat you are likely to get."

"But only think of _standing_ all that time!"

"Oh, they bring camp chairs, sometimes, I've heard, and then there are
the steps. You don't know what a really fine seat a stone step is--if
you have a _big_ enough bundle of newspapers to cushion it with! They
bring their luncheons, too, with books, papers, and knitting work for
fine days, I've been told--some of them. All the comforts of home, you
see," smiled Arkwright.

"Why, how--how dreadful!" stammered Billy.

"Oh, but they don't think it's dreadful at all," corrected Arkwright,
quickly. "For twenty-five cents they can hear all that you hear down in
your orchestra chair, for which you've paid so high a premium."

"But who--who are they? Where do they come from? Who _would_ go and
stand hours like that to get a twenty-five-cent seat?" questioned Billy.

"Who are they? Anybody, everybody, from anywhere? everywhere; people
who have the music hunger but not the money to satisfy it," he rejoined.
"Students, teachers, a little milliner from South Boston, a little
dressmaker from Chelsea, a housewife from Cambridge, a stranger from the
uttermost parts of the earth;