the company who played “Aunt Turnip-top” in the little comedy.
“Who do you think spoils the scene you are fussing about?” he asked.
“I’m no knocker,” said that lady, “and everybody knows it. So, when I say that Clarice falls down every time in that scene I’m judging her art and not herself. She was great in it once. She does it something fierce now. It’ll dope the show if she keeps it up.”
The sergeant looked at the comedian.
“You and the lady have this scene together, I understand. I suppose there’s no use asking you which one of you queers it?”
The comedian avoided the direct rays from the two fixed stars of Miss Carroll’s eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said, looking down at his patent-leather toes.
“Are you one of the actors?” asked the sergeant of a dwarfish youth with a middle-aged face.
“Why, say!” replied the last Thespian witness, “you don’t notice any tin spear in my hands, do you? You haven’t heard me shout: ‘See, the Emperor comes!’ since I’ve been in here, have you? I guess I’m on the stage long enough for ’em not to start a panic by mistaking me for a thin curl of smoke rising above the footlights.”
“In your opinion, if you’ve got one,” said the sergeant, “is the frost that gathers on the scene in question the work of the lady or the gentleman who takes part in it?”
