The last performance began. The first quarrel seemed to lack its wonted bitterness. Punch appeared halfhearted, and Judy was simply walking through.
I glanced at the girl and stroked her pig-tail—my pig-tail.
"Wootle," I said encouragingly. "Wootle, wootle."
She started at my touch. Then she seemed to remember, and flung herself into her part with abandon.
When the ghost was on, I had a brilliant idea.
"Leave the hangman out," I whispered, "and put up Judy instead. We'll have a reconciliation to finish with."
And so to Punch, sobered, shaking, cowering in the corner, with his little plaster hands before his face, came his poor wife. (Oh, but she did it well!) Gently, timidly, bravely, she laid a trembling hand upon his shoulder, and coaxed his hands from before his frightened eyes, then, backing, stood with outstretched, appealing little arms—a gesture at once so loving and pathetic that Punch was fain to thrust his sleeve before his eyes and turn his face in shame to the wall. Softly went Judy to him again, touched him, and waited. And as he turned again, to find two little arms stealing about his neck, and a poor, bare, bruised head upon his chest, he flung his arms about her with a toot of joy, and clasped her in the accepted fashion. Oh, very charming.
This was greeted with prolonged applause.
"Hold it," I said. "Hold the picture!"
As she obeyed I slid my left arm about her, ready to lift her up.