She was in a gayer mood than that in
which she had been on the previous night.
As she was entering the cab, I heard a muffled exclamation, which came from
the shadow opposite the stage door. Dimly in that shadow could be seen a
form with arms outstretched toward the woman, as in an involuntary gesture.
The cab rolled away. The form emerged from the darkness and wearily strode
by. It was that of my manuscript man. He had the same straw hat, stick, and
frock coat.
"That queer old chap must be really in love with her," I thought, smiling.
Such things often happen. I knew a gallery god--but that will keep.
Evidently here was an amusing case, not without its aspect of pathos.
Being in that vicinity on the following night, I strolled up to the stage
door, merely to see whether the straw hat would be there again. There it
was, patiently waiting, scourged by the most ferocious of January winds.
Doubtless the man came here every night to catch a glimpse of his divinity.
He was quite unobtrusive, and I was probably the only one who noticed his
constant attendance. I learned at the newspaper office that he had called
for the rejected manuscript bearing his name,--Ernest Ruddle.
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