COMEDIAN. [Stepping toward the sign-post, reading the directions on the boards, and explaining to the approaching fellow-actors.] That way [pointing to right and swinging the valise to indicate the direction] is thirty miles. This way [pointing to left] is forty-five—and that way it is thirty-six. Now choose for yourself the town that you'll never reach to-day. The nearest way for us is back to where we came from, whence we were escorted with the most splendid catcalls that ever crowned our histrionic successes.
VILLAIN. [Exhausted.] Who will lend me a hand to wipe off my perspiration? It has a nasty way of streaming into my mouth.
COMEDIAN. Stand on your head, then, and let your perspiration water a more fruitful soil.
[He drops his arms, the bundles fall down. He then sinks down onto one of them and wipes off the perspiration, moving his hand wearily over his face. The Tragedian and the "Old Man" approach the post and read the signs.
TRAGEDIAN. [In a deep, dramatic voice.] It's hopeless! It's hopeless!
[He lets go his end of the trunk.
"Old Man." [Lets go his end of the trunk.] Mm. Another stop.
[Tragedian sits himself down on the trunk in a tragico-heroic pose, knees wide apart, right elbow on right knee, left hand on left leg, head slightly bent toward the right. Comedian puts down the valises and rolls a cigarette. The "Old Man" also sits down upon the trunk, head sunk upon his breast.
VILLAIN. Thirty miles to the nearest town! Thirty miles!