As it fell, there was a curious, cackling noise in one of the boxes, the like of which had never before been heard in Granville. It was Felix Winterbottom laughing as if he were being paid a dollar a guffaw.
§4
Mr. Pottle sat beside the bedside of Mrs. Pottle, sadly going over a column of figures, as she lay there, wan, weak, tear-marred, sipping pale tea.
"As retiring treasurer of the Granville Pageant," he announced, "I regret to report as follows:
Receipts from tickets $1,250.00
Expenses, including rent, music,
scenery, costumes, and damages, $1,249.17
"This leaves a total net profit of eighty-three cents."
Mrs. Pottle wept softly into her pillow. A whistle outside caused her to lift a woeful head.
"There's the postman," she said, feebly. "Another bill, I suppose. We won't even make eighty-three cents."
Mr. Pottle returned with the letter; he opened it; he read it; he whistled; he read it again; then he read it aloud.