“There?” said I, pointing to the door.
“Yes, on the other side of that door.”
“But I can’t hear a sound.”
“I guess you can’t. But that’s all right; they are there.”
“I suppose,” I said, “I had better apologize to them for keeping them waiting three-quarters of an hour.”
“Well, just as you please,” said the manager. “I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“No; I guess they would have waited another half-hour without showing any sign of impatience.”
I opened the door trembling. My desk was far, far away. My manager was right; the audience was there. I stepped on the platform, shut the door after me, making as little noise as I could, and, walking on tiptoe so as to wake up as few people as possible, proceeded toward the table. Not one person applauded. A few people looked up unconcernedly, as if to say, “I guess that’s the show.” The rest seemed asleep, although their eyes were open.
Arrived at the desk, I faced the audience, and ventured a little joke, which fell dead flat.