_Jerry Frost is thirty-five. He is a clerk for the railroad at $3,000 a year. He possesses no eyebrows, but nevertheless he constantly tries to knit them. His lips are faintly pursed at all times, as though about to emit an enormous opinion upon some matter of great importance._ _On the wall there is a photograph of him at twenty-seven--just before he married. Those were the days of his high yellow pompadour. That is gone now, faded like the rest of him into a docile pattern without grace or humor._ _After his mysterious and unanswered “What?” Jerry stares at the carpet, surely not in æsthetic approval, and becomes engrossed in his lack of thoughts. Suddenly he gives a twitch and tries to reach with his hand some delicious sector of his back. He can almost reach it, but not quite--poor man!--so he goes to the mantelpiece and rubs his back gently, pleasingly, against it, meanwhile keeping his glance focussed darkly upon the carpet._ _He is finished. He is at physical ease again. He leans over the table--did I say there was a table?--and turns the pages of a magazine, yawning meanwhile and tentatively beginning a slow clog step with his feet. Presently this distracts him from the magazine, and he looks apathetically at his feet. Then suddenly he sits in a chair and begins to sing, unmusically, and with faint interest, a piece which is possibly his own composition. The tune varies considerably, but the words have an indisputable consistency, as they are composed wholly of the phrase: “Everybody is there, everybody is there!_” _He is a motion-picture of tremendous, unconscious boredom._ _Suddenly he gives out a harsh, bark-like sound and raises his hand swiftly, as though he were addressing an audience. This fails to amuse him; the arm falters, strays lower---- _ JERRY. Char-_lit_! Have you got the Saturday Evening Post? _There is no reply._ Char-_lit_! _Still no reply._ Char-_lit_! CHARLOTTE [_with syrupy recrimination_]. You didn’t bother to answer me, so I don’t think I should bother to answer you. JERRY [_indignant, incredulous_]. Answer you what? CHARLOTTE. You know what I mean. JERRY. I mos’ certainly do not. CHARLOTTE. I asked you to wind up the graphophone. JERRY [_glancing at it indignantly_]. The phonograph? CHARLOTTE. Yes, the graphophone! JERRY. It’s the first time I knew it. [_He is utterly disgusted. He starts to speak several times, but each time he hesitates. Disgust settles upon his face, in a heavy pall. Then he remembers his original question._] Have you got the Saturday Evening Post? CHARLOTTE. _Yes_, I told you! JERRY. You did not tell me! CHARLOTTE. I can’t help it if you’re deaf! JERRY. Deaf? Who’s deaf? [_After a pause._] No more deaf than you are. [_After another pause._] Not half as much.