Policeman (writing with painful effort, his tongue stuck out). Love of one’s neighbor—the sacred feeling which—
Mary (wearily). Papa, children, look! An advertisement is coming.
(Enter musicians with trumpets and drums, a man at their head carrying on a long pole a huge placard with the picture of an absolutely bald head, and printed underneath: “I was bald.”)
Unknown Man. Too late. They are drawing up a report here. You had better skidoo!
The Man Carrying the Pole (stopping and speaking in a loud voice). I had been bald from the day of my birth and for a long time thereafter. That miserable growth, which in my tenth year covered my scalp was more like wool than real hair. When I was married my skull was as bare as a pillow and my young bride—
Tourist. What a tragedy! Newly married and with such a head! Can you realize how dreadful that is, children?
(All listen with interest, even the policeman stopping in his arduous task and inclining his ear with his pen in his hand.)
The Man Carrying the Pole (solemnly). And the time came when my matrimonial happiness literally hung by a hair. All the medicines recommended by quacks to make my hair grow—
Tourist. Your note-book, Jimmie.
Military Woman. But when is he going to fall?