The next morning, as Eldon was leaving his boarding-house to call on Tuell at the hospital, he was astounded to see Batterson at the foot of the steps.  
“I’m looking for you,” said the stage-manager.
 
Batterson’s eyes were so bloodshot and so wet that Eldon stared his surprise. Batterson grumbled:
 
“No, I’m not drunk. Tried to get drunk, but couldn’t.”
 
Eldon was at a loss for what to say to this. Suddenly Batterson was clinging to his arm, and sobbing with head bent down to hide his weakness from the passers-by.
 
“Why, Mr. Batterson,” Eldon stammered, “what’s wrong?”
 
“Tuell’s dead.”
 
“No! My God!”
 
“He never came out of the ether. They were too late to save him. The appendix had burst while he was working last night.”
 
Eldon, remembering that uncanny battle, felt the gush of brine to his eyes. He hung his head for concealment, too.
 
Batterson raged on: “Remember what Hamlet said: ‘They say he made a good end.’ Tuell was only a mummer, but he died on the firing-line, makin’ ’em laugh. If he’d been a soldier trying to save somebody from paying taxes without representation or trying to protect some millionaire’s oil-wells, or a fireman trying to rescue somebody’s furniture—they’d have called him a damned hero. But he was only an actor—he only tried to make people happy. He was a comedian, and not a good comedian—just a hard worker; one of these stage soldiers trying to keep the theater open.
 
“He did the best he knew how. The critics ripped him open and made him funnier than he could make himself. But he kept right on. I used to roast him worse than they did, God help me! But he never laid down on us. He died in his make-up. They didn’t take his grease-paint off till afterward. They didn’t know how. I had to do it for him when I got there. Poor old painted face, with the comedian’s smile branded on it! That was his trade-mark. He was only an actor.”
 
Eldon noted that Batterson had led him, not to the hospital, but to the theater, with its electric signs, its circus lithographs, its gaudy ballyhoo of advertisement.
 
Batterson groaned: “Well, here’s the shop. We’ve got to do what Tuell did. The theater’s got to keep open. It’s another sell-out to-night. Somebody has to play Tuell’s part to-night. I want you to.”
 
In spite of the horror that filled his heart Eldon felt a shaft of hope like a thrust of lightning in the night. Then the dark closed in again, for Batterson went on:
 
“It’s only for to-night, old boy. I’ve wired to New York and a good man’ll be here to-morrow. But there’s to-night. You’ve got to go on. You fell down the other time, and I guess I told you so, but you didn’t have a rehearsal. I can coach you up to-day. I’ve called the other people. They ought to be here now.”
 
And so they were.
 
On the gloomy stage before the empty house the company stood about in somber garb, under the oppression of Tuell’s death. Batterson walked down to the footlights, clapped his hands, and said:
 
“Places, please, ladies and gentlemen, for poor old Tuell’s first scene. Mr. Eldon will play the part to-night.”
 
Those who were not on at the entrance drew to the sides. The others moved here and there and stood at their posts. Batterson directed with an unwonted calm, with a dismal patience.
 
The part Eldon held in his hand had been taken from Tuell&rsquo............