Eventually, we eventuated into the Big Scene—the maiden was adrift, the cry of alarm rang out.
"I will save her or lose my life," quoth Warner, in a voice that sounded like an auctioneer at a farm sale. Jerking off his coat, he plunged into the raging sea. Buffeted by the angry waves, he crawled to the fair maiden. He grasped her tenderly and started for the shore. Midst the noise of the corn-sheller, the barking of the dog, the efforts of the bucketeers and bellowsmen, and encouraging cries from on shore, his foot caught in a seam of the sheeting, ripping up about two yards of the ocean. The air we had so industriously pumped in, rushed out at the rent. The sea collapsed. The corn-sheller ceased shelling. The barking dog and frenzied shore cries were hushed. A dead silence fell until some sacrilegious individual in the audience whispered loudly, "It's a miracle boys; he's walking on the sea." . . . Some good Samaritan finally got the curtain down.
But what I started out to illustrate was the mistake we made—I mean the big mistake. We had advertised "Sea Drift" for two nights, thereby giving our second night's audience an opportunity to get ready for us—which they did in due and ancient form, as will be quickly sensed. A shame, since as a whole, the show probably progressed more smoothly the second night—up to the Big Scene—which was never finished.
Later on, the male part of the cast met on the bench in front of Sam Brown's meat market to talk it over, and inquire of Warner how he was getting along. His talk was short and much to the point: "Boys, we're not appreciated, and they needn't never ask me to put on a play in this town again. . . I didn't mind the tomatoes, or the potatoes much—or even the eggs—could see 'em coming and dodge 'em. But I would like to know the SOB who threw that china door knob."
I presume you see my point by this time concerning a second effort in Shelbyville—oratorically.
Seriously, I . . . shall have to refuse your very kind offer. My father-in-law has been very low for months. He lives in Pennsylvania. My wife was called to Pennsylvania by the family, who thought the end was about come. . .and I shall have to hold myself in readiness to go at any time. Respectfully,
SWAMPED
Greencastle, Indiana
Oct. 2, 1929
Mr. D. Ray Higgins
937 Illinois Building
Indianapolis, Indiana
Dear Sir, I have your very kind letter inviting me to make the talk before the Shrine Club. . . I should be delighted to make whatever talk I could, but the truth is I am sort of swamped in a small way with things of that nature. I am having some important cases tried this month, and I just must get ready for them. . . There must be an epidemic of Masonic meetings, or rather dinners, just at this time. I had a call yesterday from Terre Haute for a similar purpose, and last Saturday one from Logansport.
Now the truth is, and I told the other parties this same thing, I am more than rusty on Masonry. . . What talks I make are nearly always directed toward the Legislature, or some sort of politics, and are more in the nature of fun along those lines than serious stuff.