FullReads

“Who makes the charge?” asked the sergeant.

“Me,” said a white-aproned voice in the rear. “De restaurant sent me to. De gang was raisin’ a rough-house and breakin’ dishes.”

“The dishes were paid for,” said the playwright. “They were not broken purposely. In her anger, because we remonstrated with her for spoiling the scene, Miss–“

“It’s not true, sergeant,” cried the clear voice of Miss Clarice Carroll. In a long coat of tan silk and a red-plumed hat, she bounded before the desk.

“It’s not my fault,” she cried indignantly. “How dare they say such a thing! I’ve played the title role ever since it was staged, and if you want to know who made it a success, ask the public–that’s all.”

“What Miss Carroll says is true in part,” said the author. “For five months the comedietta was a drawing-card in the best houses. But during the last two weeks it has lost favour. There is one scene in it in which Miss Carroll made a big hit. Now she hardly gets a hand out of it. She spoils it by acting it entirely different from her old way.”

“It is not my fault,” reiterated the actress.

“There are only two of you on in the scene,” argued the playwright hotly, “you and Delmars, here–“

“Then it’s his fault,” declared Miss Carroll, with a lightning glance of scorn from her dark eyes. The comedian caught it, and gazed with increased melancholy at the panels of the sergeant’s desk.

The night was a dull one in that particular police station.

The sergeant’s long-blunted curiosity awoke a little.

“I’ve heard you,” he said to the author. And then he addressed the thin-faced and ascetic-looking lady of the company who played “Aunt Turnip-top” in the little comedy.

“Who do you think spoils the scene you are fussing about?” he asked.

“I’m no knocker,” said that lady, “and everybody knows it. So, when I say that Clarice falls down every time in that scene I’m judging her art and not herself. She was great in it once. She does it something fierce now. It’ll dope the show if she keeps it up.”

The sergeant looked at the comedian.

“You and the lady have this scene together, I understand. I suppose there’s no use asking you which one of you queers it?”

The comedian avoided the direct rays from the two fixed stars of Miss Carroll’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking down at his patent-leather toes.

“Are you one of the actors?” asked the sergeant of a dwarfish youth with a middle-aged face.

“Why, say!” replied the last Thespian witness, “you don’t notice any tin spear in my hands, do you? You haven’t heard me shout: ‘See, the Emperor comes!’ since I’ve been in here, have you? I guess I’m on the stage long enough for ’em not to start a panic by mistaking me for a thin curl of smoke rising above the footlights.”

“In your opinion, if you’ve got one,” said the sergeant, “is the frost that gathers on the scene in question the work of the lady or the gentleman who takes part in it?”

The middle-aged youth looked pained.

“I regret to say,” he answered, “that Miss Carroll seems to have lost her grip on that scene. She’s all right in the rest of the play, but–but I tell you, sergeant, she can do it–she has done it equal to any of ’em–and she can do it again.”

Miss Carroll ran forward, glowing and palpitating.

“Thank you, Jimmy, for the first good word I’ve had in many a day,” she cried. And then she turned her eager face toward the desk.

“I’ll show you, sergeant, whether I am to blame. I’ll show them whether I can do that scene. Come, Mr. Delmars; let us begin. You will let us, won’t you, sergeant?”

“How long will it take?” asked the sergeant, dubiously.

“Eight minutes,” said the playwright. “The entire play consumes but thirty.”

“You may go ahead,” said the sergeant. “Most of you seem to side against the little lady. Maybe she had a right to crack up a saucer or two in that restaurant. We’ll see how she does the turn before we take that up.”