The band was playing loudly; the din of the night performance was
increasing. Douglas's nerves were strained to a point of
breaking. He would not let himself go near the window. He stood
by the side of the table, his fists clenched, and tried to beat
back the impulse that was pulling him toward the door. Again and
again he set his teeth.
It was uncertainty that gnawed at him so. Was she ill? Could she
need him? Was she sorry for having left him? Would she be glad if
he went for her and brought her back with him? He recalled the
hysterical note in her behaviour the day that she went away; how
she had pleaded, only a few moments before Jim came, never to be
separated from him. Had she really cared for Jim and for the old
life? Why had she never written? Was she ashamed? Was she sorry
for what she had done? What could it mean? He threw his hands
above his head with a gesture of despair. A moment later, he
passed out into the night.
Chapter XIII
JIM was slow to-night. The big show was nearly over, yet many of
the props used in the early part of the bill were still unloaded.
He was tinkering absent-mindedly with one of the wagons in the
back lot, and the men were standing about idly, waiting for
orders, when Barker came out of the main tent and called to him
sharply:
"Hey, there, Jim! What's your excuse to- night?"
"Excuse for what?" Jim crossed slowly to Barker.
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