"You see," said Mrs. Balmer to the police sergeant, "he was afraid of something and he couldn't stand the dark. And the portières always frightened him. But the doctor wasn't able to do anything with him. The doctor says there was some secret about it and that Mr. Crawford went crazy because of this secret. The only thing they found out about him was that he used to be a sailor." AN OLD AUDIENCE SPEAKS Tired, madam? That is nothing remarkable. So are we, whose faces you see from across the footlights, faces like rows of wilted plants in the gloom of this decrepit theater. We are all very tired. It is Saturday afternoon. For a little while yesterday there was spring in the streets. But now it has grown cold again. The wind blows. The buildings wear a bald, cheerless look. What are we tired about? God knows. Perhaps because winter is so long in passing. Or, perhaps, because spring will be so long in passing. Tired of waiting for tomorrow. So you dance for us. We have paid 50 cents each to see the show. This abominable orchestra is out of tune. The fiddles scrape, the piano makes clattering sounds. And you, madam, are tired. The gay purple tights, the gilded bodice, the sultana's toque, or whatever it is, do not deceive us. Your legs, madam, are not as shapely as they were once. And your body--ah, bodies grow old. Yes, we are not deceived, madam. You have come to us--last. There were others before us, others reaching far back, to whom you gave your youth. Others for whom you danced when your legs were, perhaps, like two spring mornings, and when your body was, perhaps, like a pretty laugh. * * * * * Here are the tired ones. From the South Clark and South State streets bed-houses. The kinds of faces that the smart movie directors hire as "types" for the underworld scenes or the slum scenes. It is Saturday afternoon and we walked up and down the street, looking at the lithographs outside the decrepit theater fronts. And when it got too cold to walk any farther we dropped in, forking out four bits for the privilege. And we expect nothing, madam. There will be no great music for us. And what scenery there is behind the footlights will be faded and patched. The jokes will be things that make no one laugh. And the dancers, madam, will be like you. Tired, heavy-faced dancers, whose legs flop, whose bodies bounce while the abominable orchestra plays. But it is warm where we sit. We half shut our eyes and tired little dreams come to us. And you, madam, going wearily through your steps, are the Joy of Life. Your hoarse voice, singing indecipherable words about dearie and honey and my jazz baby, your sagging shoulders layered with powder and jerking to the music, the rigid, lifeless grin of your cruelly painted lips--these things and the torn, smeared papier-mâché ballroom interior--these are the Joy of Life.