Batterson’s eyes were so bloodshot and so wet that Eldon stared his surprise. Batterson grumbled:
“No, I’m not drunk. Tried to get drunk, but couldn’t.”
Eldon was at a loss for what to say to this. Suddenly Batterson was clinging to his arm, and sobbing with head bent down to hide his weakness from the passers-by.
“Why, Mr. Batterson,” Eldon stammered, “what’s wrong?”
“Tuell’s dead.”
“No! My God!”
“He never came out of the ether. They were too late to save him. The appendix had burst while he was working last night.”
Eldon, remembering that uncanny battle, felt the gush of brine to his eyes. He hung his head for concealment, too.
Batterson raged on: “Remember what Hamlet said: ‘They say he made a good end.’ Tuell was only a mummer, but he died on the firing-line, makin’ ’em laugh. If he’d been a soldier trying to save somebody from paying taxes without representation or trying to protect some millionaire’s oil-wells, or a fireman trying to rescue somebody’s furniture—they’d have called him a damned hero. But he was only an actor—he only tried to make people happy. He was a comedian, and not a good comedian—just a hard worker; one of these stage soldiers trying to keep the theater open.
“He did the best he knew how. The critics ripped him open and made him funnier than he could make himself. But he kept right on. I used to roast him worse than they did, God help me! But he never laid down on us. He died in his make-up. They didn’t take his grease-paint off till afterward. They didn’t know how. I had to do it for him when I got there. Poor old painted face, with the comedian’s smile branded on it! That was his trade-mark. He was only an actor.”