Usually these were Leon Kantor’s own people pouring up from the lowly lands of the East Side to the white lands of Broadway, parched for music, these burning brethren of his—­old men in that line, frequently carrying their own little folding camp-chairs, not against weariness of the spirit but of the flesh; youth with Slavic eyes and cheek-bones.  These were the six-deep human phalanx which would presently slant down at him from tiers of steepest balconies and stand frankly emotional and jammed in the unreserved space behind the railing which shut them off from the three-dollar seats of the reserved.

At a very special one of these concerts, dedicated to the meager purses of just these, and held in New York’s super-opera-house, the Amphitheater, a great bowl of humanity, the metaphor made perfect by tiers of seats placed upon the stage, rose from orchestra to dome.  A gigantic Colosseum of a cup, lined in stacks and stacks of faces.  From the door of his dressing-room, leaning out, Leon Kantor could see a great segment of it, buzzing down into adjustment, orchestra twitting and tuning into it.

In a bare little room, illuminated by a sheaf of roses just arrived, Mrs. Kantor drew him back by the elbow.

“Leon, you’re in a draft.”

The amazing years had dealt kindly with Mrs. Kantor.  Stouter, softer, apparently even taller, she was full of small new authorities that could shut out cranks, newspaper reporters, and autograph fiends.  A fitted-over-corsets black taffeta and a high comb in the greying hair had done their best with her.  Pride, too, had left its flush upon her cheeks, like two round spots of fever.

“Leon, it’s thirty minutes till your first number.  Close that door.  Do you want to let your papa and his excitement in on you?”

The son of Sarah Kantor obeyed, leaning on his short, rather narrow form in silhouette against the closed door.  In spite of slimly dark evening clothes worked out by an astute manager to the last detail in boyish effects, there was that about him which defied long-haired precedent.  Slimly and straightly he had shot up into an unmannered, a short, even a bristly-haired young manhood, disqualifying by a close shave for the older school of hirsute virtuosity.

But his nerves did not spare him.  On concert nights they seemed to emerge almost to the surface of him and shriek their exposure.

“Just feel my hands, ma.  Like ice.”

She dived down into her large silk what-not of a reticule.

“I’ve got your fleece-lined gloves here, son.”

“No—­no.  For God’s—­sake—­not those things!  No!”

He was back at the door again, opening it to a slit, peering through.

“They’re bringing more seats on the stage.  If they crowd me in I won’t go on.  I can’t play if I hear them breathe.  Hi—­out there—­no more chairs—­pa—­Hancock—­”

“Leon, Leon, ain’t you ashamed to get so worked up?  Close that door.  Have you got a manager who is paid just to see to your comfort?  When papa comes, I’ll have him go out and tell Hancock you don’t want chairs so close to you.  Leon, will you mind mamma and sit down?”