From the wings they could see Tuell’s knuckles whiten where he clung to a chair to keep from falling.
The audience loved Tuell to-night, never suspected his anguishes, and waited for him, laughed when he appeared. For his final exit he had always stumbled off, whooping with stage laughter. It had always resounded unaccompanied. To-night he was so spent that he was capable only of a dry little chuckle. To his ears it was the old uproar. To the audience it was the delicious giggle of this spring’s wind in last year’s leaves. It tickled the multitude and all those united titters made a thunder.
Tuell staggered past the dead-line of the wings and fell forward into Eldon’s arms, whispering:
“I got ’em that time. Damn ’em, I got ’em at last.”
Eldon helped him to his chair, helped lift him in his chair and carry him to the ambulance. Tuell didn’t know whither they were taking him. He clawed at Eldon’s arm and muttered:
“I must write to the wife and tell her how I killed ’em to-night. And I’ve got the trick now. I’ve just found the secret—just to-night. Of course there wouldn’t be a critic there. Oh no, of course not.”
But there was a Critic there.
CHAPTER XIV
The next morning, as Eldon was leaving his boarding-house to call on Tuell at the hospital, he was astounded to see Batterson at the foot of the steps.
“I’m looking for you,” said the stage-manager.