And yet he asks in all humility--is the play not enough?--or must
he lift the back-drop and bring into view the net-work of pulleys
and lines, the tanks of moonlight gas and fake properties of
papier-mache that produce the illusion? As a compromise would it
not be the better way after this for him to play the Harlequin,
popping in and out at the unexpected moment, helping the plot here
and there by a gesture, a whack, or a pirouette; hobnobbing with
Peter or Miss Felicia, and their friends; listening to Jack's and
Ruth's talk, or following them at a distance, whenever his
presence might embarrass either them or the comedy?
This being agreed upon, we will leave our hero this bright
morning--the one succeeding the row with his uncle--at the door of
Peter's bank, confident that Jack can take care of himself.
And the confidence is not misplaced. Only once did the boy's
glance waver, and that was when his eyes sought the window facing
Peter's desk. Some egg other than Peter's was nesting on the open
ledger spread out on the Receiving Teller's desk--not an ostrich
egg of a head at all, but an evenly parted, well-combed, well-
slicked brown wig, covering the careful pate of one of the other
clerks who, in the goodness of his heart, was filling Peter's
place for the day.
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