Voices. Aha, he has confessed. What a scoundrel!
Tall Tourist. Write down what I dictate, policeman—"Desiring—for the sake of gain to exploit the sentiment of love of one's neighbor—the sacred feeling—a-a-a—"
Tourist. Listen, children, they are drawing up an official report. What exquisite choice of language!
Tall Tourist. The sacred feeling which—
Policeman [writing with painful effort, his tongue stuck out]. Love of one's neighbor—the sacred feeling which—
Mary [wearily]. Papa, children, look! An advertisement is coming.
[Enter musicians with trumpets and drums, a man at their head carrying on a long pole a huge placard with the picture of an absolutely bald head, and printed underneath: "I was bald."]
Unknown Man. Too late. They are drawing up a report here. You had better skidoo!
The Man Carrying the Pole [stopping and speaking in a loud voice]. I had been bald from the day of my birth and for a long time thereafter. That miserable growth, which in my tenth year covered my scalp was more like wool than real hair. When I was married my skull was as bare as a pillow and my young bride—
Tourist. What a tragedy! Newly married and with such a head! Can you realize how dreadful that is, children?