Staring eyes and gaping mouths were all turned toward the screen. A woman beside me automatically fanned herself. I could smell sweat; someone was reeking with it. But I was cold—cold.
Dimly I heard the clicking in the projecting room above me. Something clammy passed across my eyes and left them watery. I shrank back, closing them. Through my quivering lids I saw the words, "one way or another."
I forced my eyes open and stared again at the screen. Miss Donner was still being carried—and no one carried her.
Suddenly I remembered I was the director. Martini was late for his cue. He should have come into the picture when the flap of the tent drew back. Why didn't he? I heard that cackle in my ear.
"You don't expect a man to miss his own funeral?"
"Martini!" I shouted, whirling. "Get on the set. You're late. Get in the picture!" And louder, "Martini! For God's sake, you'll ruin me! Martini!"
I felt eyes, hundreds of eyes, staring. The whole house was on its feet leering back at me. I could hear the silence. I leaned against the wall for support.
A laugh sounded in front of me. "That new twist," someone barked. "Page O. Henry." It was Parmelee.
I was weak. Something was pulling at my knees. I lost all enmity for Parmelee. A feeling of compassion for those who didn't know the master surged over me.
"Parmelee," I said gently, knowing he would never understand, "you don't need to page O. Henry. He is here." My hand sought my heart, and stayed there.
"So he is," barked Parmelee, looking flippantly toward the screen.
The Unfinished Story, an O. Henry two-reeler, had begun.
The Swamp
By Cristel Hastings
Night settles swiftly with its ghostly tread
Over the tangled swamp where trees lie dead,
Their stumps upright, like lonely shapes of men
Long lost in wet morass and shadowed glen.
A silence broods over the sodden aisles
Of lifelessness that stretch for aching miles
Beyond a moor where clouds hang, gray and cold,
Sinister roofing for a pond grown old.
Night gropes with ease about the stealthy weed
That sucks its life, a tawny, wind-blown reed,
From sodden flooring where mosquitoes hum
Their high soprano to the frogs' shrill drum.
