His arms, as if overcoming some awful
resistance, shot out, and his hands seized the portieres. With the amazing
screams still coming from his throat, Mr. Crawford tore crazily at the
portieres until they ripped from the rod above the folding-door. They came
down and the man fell with them. Over him, hanging on the "clothes-closet"
hooks, were revealed an old straw hat, an old coat and a worn shirt.
* * * * *
"You see," said Mrs. Balmer to the police sergeant, "he was afraid of
something and he couldn't stand the dark. And the portieres always
frightened him. But the doctor wasn't able to do anything with him. The
doctor says there was some secret about it and that Mr. Crawford went
crazy because of this secret. The only thing they found out about him was
that he used to be a sailor."
AN OLD AUDIENCE SPEAKS
Tired, madam? That is nothing remarkable. So are we, whose faces you see
from across the footlights, faces like rows of wilted plants in the gloom
of this decrepit theater. We are all very tired.
It is Saturday afternoon. For a little while yesterday there was spring in
the streets. But now it has grown cold again. The wind blows. The
buildings wear a bald, cheerless look.
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