Miss Billie's Decision [45]
telling them something of his studies, and of the life he was living.
``After all, you see there's just this difference between my friends and yours,'' he said, at last. ``Your friends _are_ doing things. They've succeeded. Mine haven't, yet--they're only _trying_.''
``But they will succeed,'' cried Billy.
``Some of them,'' amended the man.
``Not--all of them?'' Billy looked a little troubled.
Arkwright shook his head slowly.
``No. They couldn't--all of them, you know. Some haven't the talent, some haven't the perseverance, and some haven't the money.''
``But all that seems such a pity-when they've tried,'' grieved Billy.
``It is a pity, Miss Neilson. Disappointed hopes are always a pity, aren't they?''
``Y-yes,'' sighed the girl. ``But--if there were only something one could do to--help!''
Arkwright's eyes grew deep with feeling, but his voice, when he spoke, was purposely light.
``I'm afraid that would be quite too big a contract for even your generosity, Miss Neilson-- to mend all the broken hopes in the world,'' he prophesied.
``I have known great good to come from great disappointments, ``remarked Aunt Hannah, a bit didactically.
``So have I,'' laughed Arkwright, still determined to drive the troubled shadow from the face he was watching so intently. ``For instance: a fellow I know was feeling all cut up last Friday because he was just too late to get into Symphony Hall on the twenty-five-cent admission. Half an hour afterwards his disappointment was turned to joy--a friend who had an orchestra chair couldn't use his ticket that day, and so handed it over to him.''
Billy turned interestedly.
``What are those twenty-five-cent tickets to the Symphony?''
``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,
``After all, you see there's just this difference between my friends and yours,'' he said, at last. ``Your friends _are_ doing things. They've succeeded. Mine haven't, yet--they're only _trying_.''
``But they will succeed,'' cried Billy.
``Some of them,'' amended the man.
``Not--all of them?'' Billy looked a little troubled.
Arkwright shook his head slowly.
``No. They couldn't--all of them, you know. Some haven't the talent, some haven't the perseverance, and some haven't the money.''
``But all that seems such a pity-when they've tried,'' grieved Billy.
``It is a pity, Miss Neilson. Disappointed hopes are always a pity, aren't they?''
``Y-yes,'' sighed the girl. ``But--if there were only something one could do to--help!''
Arkwright's eyes grew deep with feeling, but his voice, when he spoke, was purposely light.
``I'm afraid that would be quite too big a contract for even your generosity, Miss Neilson-- to mend all the broken hopes in the world,'' he prophesied.
``I have known great good to come from great disappointments, ``remarked Aunt Hannah, a bit didactically.
``So have I,'' laughed Arkwright, still determined to drive the troubled shadow from the face he was watching so intently. ``For instance: a fellow I know was feeling all cut up last Friday because he was just too late to get into Symphony Hall on the twenty-five-cent admission. Half an hour afterwards his disappointment was turned to joy--a friend who had an orchestra chair couldn't use his ticket that day, and so handed it over to him.''
Billy turned interestedly.
``What are those twenty-five-cent tickets to the Symphony?''
``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,