The Penultimate Ha

"Wotch it Chally!" the fireman yelled, just as the torch popped the placard into flames. The other fireman jumped and threw the sign to the ground, where it was stamped to ashes by other men in blue.

"We take our hats off to our fyermen,

The lads so bold and brave,

You find that night and day they're fyting flames

In ev'ry way."

A fulsome female voice delivered these lyrics, along with much static, from a speaker truck plastered with Furcolo signs.

"Not yet, not yet!" a big, red-faced fireman in dress uniform bellowed at the truck. "Wait until the band starts!"

The streets and sidewalks of the little square behind the Statler were jammed with a great ranging mob of citizens.

Everything lay under an acrid fog of blue smoke let off by the torches and flares. The assembled marching firemen. Cars hanging with streamers, pasted with signs. Banner-strung lamp posts. Photographers. Motorcycle policemen. Loudspeaker trucks. The crowds were restless. It was time.

At the far end of the square a great movement of blue and glittering brass stiffened to attention. A whistle blew and the hundred members of the Saint William's Catholic Youth Organization Champion Band marched up the street, blasting their way through the Washington Post March. Half a dozen puttee'd policemen leaped on their machines and raced ahead to clear the way. The bass drum thumped into the smoky air and crowds of civilian marchers fell in behind. The firemen followed, in step, bearing posters that read VOTE YES ON 4. A red-white-and-blue semi-trailer truck rumbled into the square snorting diesel smoke and music, staffed by ten young men who threw down handfuls of Kennedy-Furcolo buttons and armloads of paper streamers. Just ahead of it walked a man inside a great box sign, inexplicably made up in a long beard, top hat, and dark glasses. The sign was stapled over with dust jackets of The Last Hurrah.

After that, snaking through Washington Street came a car caravan with the Mayors of Woburn, Malden, Melrose. Chelsea, Somerville, and Watertown. The procession reached Loew's Orpheum in twenty minutes. They were expected. Huge banners hung across Washington Street, and a bank of gigantic revolving search-lights striped the air white and red. By the time the important guests began to arrive, the crowd was a panting mass of humanity. Police lines were trampled and girls screamed.

"Who is it, Doris! Is it...!"

"It's him! It's Jack! Oh Jackie! Jackie!"

Inside the lobby, men in evening clothes strolled and talked importantly. The radio stations were interviewing.

"...Jeffrey Hunter. Jeff, you play Spencer Tracy's nephew, isn't that right?"

"That's right, Bill."

"Wel, Jeff, how do you like Boston?"

"Golly, Bill, it's just wonderful to be here, and I'm sure having a wonderful time."

"Would you come running up the stairs late, Mr. Hunter," a Globe photographer said, "wiping your head with your handkerchief? Oh, you don't have a handkerchief. Here, use mine. Now running up smiling and looking late please. That's fine. Now would you do it again, please. Just in case the pic doesn't turn out?"

"Sure thing," Jeff said, and flashed his famous smile.

"What's this Last Hurrah business, Mary?" one launder-woman asked the other as they pushed through the crowd outside.

"It's politics," Mary said.