But they drew back and looked away, or dropped their eyes; they acted almost shamed. Well, some of them had been mistaken; they'd called him yellow. He wanted to stop and tell 'em it was not so, but he couldn't spare the time just now. He had to hurry to his dressing-room and tell Hamilton and English the joke,—this joke at his own expense.
English had an idea apparently that he was helping him, holding him up. Well, he wasn't. He'd bet it was fourteen feet from his neck to his ankles. But the joke—had they closed the door? Then listen!
"The roof! I thought it was the roof that fell on me! Can you beat that? First a brick roof—then a tin one—" He thought it was laughter which doubled him up.
"And do you know what it really was?" He gave them ample time but received no answer. So he shouted it aloud; he thought he shouted:
"Not the roof at all! Not brick—not even tin! Pots and pans! Pots and pans! Aluminum! Dozens! A whole set of 'em!"
He thought it was laughter which doubled him up; then found he was deathly sick. Was this the floor he was lying upon, or a table? Because if it was the floor he'd have to get up; he didn't know whether he could make it again or not but he'd be a game guy and try. They were holding him? All right, let it go at that. Holliday'd not got up either. He could see Holliday just as plain—just as clear!—unconscious on the canvas. Then the fight must be over—he was glad of that …
He came to crying weakly.