Free The Circus Fire by Stewart O’Nan

called it "a sellout, a packed house." Contemporary accounts placed the crowd at somewhere between 4,000 and 10,000. Commissioner Hickey cited 10,048 as capacity "from information and records that were furnished me at my hearing," yet in his testimony General Manager George W. Smith stated that typically with this setup they sold 6,048 grandstand tickets and 3,000 general admission. Smiths math was off on both counts, but just barely. The official physical capacity of the grandstands (twenty sections, eighteen rows, sixteen seats per) was 5,760, the bleachers (thirty-four lengths at one hundred customers per) 3,400, for a total of 9,160. Of course, the house for the Fourth of July Providence show under the same top was widely publicized as a nice, round 10,000, and the Ringling program itself bragged that the World's Largest Tent sat 11,000. One survivor remembered numerous empty reserved seats, with ushers near the center ring selling these at a discount. Another woman in the southeast bleachers thought section K was empty.
The true attendance, like so many other things about the circus fire, will never be known. From the capacity, the few existing photos, and numerous eyewitness accounts, it seems the house that day was near but not quite full, with approximately 5,500 fans in the grandstand and 3,200 on the blues, for a total of 8,700.
All of them were getting impatient in the heat—the children for the show, the parents with the children. As Don Cook returned from the men's room, George W. Smith did one last reconnaissance of the midway. He came back through the front door, past Thomas Barber and chiefs Brice and Hallissey, and gave Fred Bradna the high sign to start the show. It was 2:23 Eastern War Time, only eight minutes late.
Over the PA, the announcer asked the crowd to please stand for our national anthem. As the grandstands rose, the unattached chairs scuffed and squeaked against the risers. All faces turned to the flag, way down at one corner of the bandstand, hanging limp on its pole right beside Merle Evans. The planks of the bleachers were so narrow it was hard to stand on them—especially for pregnant Mabel Epps. At both ends, people sang along with the clear brasses of the band, swaying, knees locked, a hand on the shoulder of those in front of them.

    Out on Barbour Street, a man and his son were late. The man swung his car into the sole available parking spot, right across from McGovern's, thinking he was lucky. He'd killed the engine and started rolling up his windows when someone on the sidewalk called, "Hey. Back up. You're too close to that fire hydrant." The man backed up.
    Not long behind him came Adolph Pastore in Commissioner Hickey's big black Caddy. From the porch, the commissioner called inside to Isabel, who grabbed Billy. Pastore popped the back door and the kids scrambled out, the whole crew headed up the street, double-time—all but Sergeant Pastore, who stayed with the car. They were late but none of them had eaten; it was for just this reason that the circus strategically placed the grease joints along the midway, the scents of frying wieners and bubbling caramel impossible to ignore. Hickey dug his wallet out and sprang for hot dogs and Cokes all around.
    Inside, everyone had sat down, the legs of the chairs protesting again. Fred Bradna strode out in his huntsman's red tailcoat and white jodhpurs and black plug hat and blew his whistle to open the show. Merle Evans cued the band.
    Some people remember a clown driving around the track squished into his tiny car, or an endless succession of clowns bounding out of one, but that never happened. Others say that the usual first three acts were canceled because of the threat of bad weather—that's false also.
    The show followed the program exactly: "Display 1. Novel and highly amusing introductory presentation in which the art of wild animal training is given a reverse twist. A Frolicsome Forerunner of the Magnificent Display of