Carlson said, “I ain’t a fool. Tell Rothenstein to call a rehearsal for ten in the mornin’, will you.” He then went briskly to hunt down this asset. It took some minutes to locate the dressing room Mark Walling shared with five other small parts. He found Mark peeled to faded, azure cotton underclothes and talking happily to a tall, fair rustic who slouched on the wall beside the sink where Mark scrubbed paint from his feet with a sponge. Their drawls mixed and shut from them the noise of Carlson’s step, so the manager regarded his prize stealthily. Mark was a long lad, limber and burly, harmlessly good looking. His nose was short. His insteps and arms were thick with muscle. He smiled up at his rural friend who said, “But it ain’t a long trip, Bud. So I’ll get your papa to come up nex’ week.” Mark shifted the sponge to his other hand and sighed. The sound touched Carlson who hated actors not old enough to court him cleverly. But this was a homesick peasant. He listened to Mark’s answer of, “Wish you would, Eddie. I ain’t sure papa likes my bein’ here. Even if I do--” The rustic saw Carlson and mumbled. Mark Walling hopped about on one foot and gave a solemn, frightened gulp. Carlson nodded, inquiring, “That your brother, sonny?” “No, sir. Joe’s home. This is Eddie Bernamer. Well, he’s my brother-in-law. He’s married with Sadie.” Eddie Bernamer gave out attenuated sounds, accepting the introduction. The manager asked lightly, “How many sisters have you, son?” “Just Sadie. She’s out lookin’ at the play.” “And you’ve married Cora Boyle?” “Well,” said Mark, “that’s so.” He seemed rather puzzled by the fact, suspended the sponge and said to Eddie Bernamer, “She ain’t but two years older’n me, Eddie.” “I guess Mr. Carlson wants to talk to you, Bud,” his relative muttered, “So I’ll go on back and see some more.” “But you’ll come round an’ wait after the show?” Mark wailed. “We’ll have to catch the cars, Bud. Well, goo’ bye.” Mark stood clutching the sponge and sighed a monstrous, woeful exhalation after Eddie Bernamer. His grey eyes filled. He was hideously homesick, certain that Fayettesville was a better place than this cellar that stunk of sweated cloth and greasy paint. And Cora hadn’t been strikingly pleased by the news of him in this morning’s papers. She was odd. He wiped his nose on a wrist and looked hopelessly at Carlson. “Rather be back on the farm, wouldn’t you?” the gaunt man asked.