He strutted by them in stilted vanity and gripped the lifting ropes of the old curtain where they swung in the near angle of the wings, and [241] pulled downward on them with an unexpected display of muscular force. The curtain rose; and as Blinky, still at his place, uplifted a little yell of approbation the old man, bending his shoulders, passed out into the centre of the French drawing-room set and, extending a quivering hand, uttered sonorously the command:
“‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!’”
“The mad scene from King Lear,” said Offutt.
“Sure—Shakspere!” agreed Verba. “Old Scudder was a bug on that Bard stuff. So was Bateman. He used to know it from cover to cover—Othello, Hamlet, Lear—the whole string. … Anyhow, Offutt, I’ve found the only man to do the grandfather’s part in that show of yours, haven’t I?”
“I’m sorry to say it, Verba, but you’re wrong,” stated Offutt.
“How do you mean—I’m wrong?” demanded Verba irritably. Out of the corner of his mouth he aimed the protest at his companion; but his eyes, through the gap of the first entrance, were fixed on Bateman as he strode back and forth, and his ears drank in the splendid full-lunged volume and thrill of Bateman’s voice as the player spoke snatches from the play. “He’s not too old—if that’s what you mean; he’s just about old enough. And he’s all there, even if he is old. Didn’t you see the strength he had when he hoisted up that heavy curtain?”
[242]
“I think I know where that strength came from,” said Offutt. “Just a minute, Verba—did you ever hear of the Great Auk?”
“He was in vaudeville, wasn’t he?” asked Verba, still staring at Bateman. “A trick juggler or something?”
Offutt forgot to smile.
“The Great Auk was a bird,” he said.