be overtaken, but not fast enough to arouse suspicion. Also, if it seemed that one might overtake someone else, one had to choose a route to pass by the person without suspicion.
The papers in his hand burned at him. He wanted to tear open the papers right then, but knew that to get home was most important.
The noise of footsteps came from up ahead. William ducked into the entranceway of a building. He reached up and unscrewed the lightbulb. He was in darkness, and across the way the streetlight blinked on and off. The footsteps were nearer now. He was positive he could not be seen, but still his hands shook.
I must get home, he said to himself. I must get home to Molly.
There were three men and they were talking loudly. They were upon him and then past him. He watched them go. These men were not worried in the slightest. But who could they be, to not be worried?
William hurried on.
A fancy rose in his head then, that he would be caught, but that he could escape. He would be running and they would corner him in some stone court. They would be grim faced, terrible, and he would draw out the violin and play and his pursuers would be forced to dance and dance until it was morning. The sun would rise and they would collapse on legs that would not support them and he would hurry away home. He could play that well. He felt he could. He could feel their legs failing them, could feel them dropping one by one, helpless.
—It will be a musical play, said Mr. Gibbons, reading from the sheet Molly had handed him, but there will be little or no music in it.
He looked up.
—That’s sound, he said, and in keeping with our resources. I see you have a brain in your head. Has your father spoken about music to you? No, no, don’t answer that. I’m sure anything you have to say will appear in the play, and that will be enough for me.
He continued,
—It will not be a musical play, as in, a musical. Music is the theme.
He nodded.
—The characters will be divided between animals and humans. It will be clear that nothing in particular is meant by one being an animal or not. Although, of course, a particular trait associated with an animal might have a bearing on the character portrayed. E.g., a cunning fox, or a silly goose.
—There are no goose puppets anyway, said Mrs. Gibbons, who sat silently in the corner, knitting something indefinable.
—There will be no magic, whatsoever. Magic is either a poverty-stricken necessity or a wealthy fantasy. We are in neither of those straits, and what cannot be explained will be left unknown.
A glad tension had begun to show around the edges of Mr. Gibbons as he saw that it would be a real puppet show. Now, each proof that Molly made of her seriousness was joined with the forgotten vitality of his long life’s puppetry.
—Death of puppets: still to be spoken of. Show: not funny. Theme: sickness (grand scale). Villain: none.
Here Mr. Gibbons drew up like a struck horse.
—I say, young lady, I really do, I must say, a puppet show with no villain. Why, we shall have to talk this through. I don’t know that it can be done, and even if it could, well, why would you want such a thing, and then there is the matter of what is the glue to hold it all together, and how I have already been thinking of how it might be, and, Molly. I’m not sure this will do.
Molly stared up at him with determination.
He continued,
—Three acts, yes. Forwards, backwards, as you like. No audience, I suppose.
He put down the sheet and looked at her.
—As for the audience, well, we’ll see about that.
He winked at Mrs. Gibbons.
—But for the rest, yes, let’s talk over here where Mrs. Gibbons can’t hear us.
Molly and Mr. Gibbons went to the far side of the room. A moment later, Molly returned for her paper, and dashed back again. From the corner, much scribbling and fuming.
William had passed along four more streets and had been forced to hide twice more. Windows with a meager light might be seen
The papers in his hand burned at him. He wanted to tear open the papers right then, but knew that to get home was most important.
The noise of footsteps came from up ahead. William ducked into the entranceway of a building. He reached up and unscrewed the lightbulb. He was in darkness, and across the way the streetlight blinked on and off. The footsteps were nearer now. He was positive he could not be seen, but still his hands shook.
I must get home, he said to himself. I must get home to Molly.
There were three men and they were talking loudly. They were upon him and then past him. He watched them go. These men were not worried in the slightest. But who could they be, to not be worried?
William hurried on.
A fancy rose in his head then, that he would be caught, but that he could escape. He would be running and they would corner him in some stone court. They would be grim faced, terrible, and he would draw out the violin and play and his pursuers would be forced to dance and dance until it was morning. The sun would rise and they would collapse on legs that would not support them and he would hurry away home. He could play that well. He felt he could. He could feel their legs failing them, could feel them dropping one by one, helpless.
—It will be a musical play, said Mr. Gibbons, reading from the sheet Molly had handed him, but there will be little or no music in it.
He looked up.
—That’s sound, he said, and in keeping with our resources. I see you have a brain in your head. Has your father spoken about music to you? No, no, don’t answer that. I’m sure anything you have to say will appear in the play, and that will be enough for me.
He continued,
—It will not be a musical play, as in, a musical. Music is the theme.
He nodded.
—The characters will be divided between animals and humans. It will be clear that nothing in particular is meant by one being an animal or not. Although, of course, a particular trait associated with an animal might have a bearing on the character portrayed. E.g., a cunning fox, or a silly goose.
—There are no goose puppets anyway, said Mrs. Gibbons, who sat silently in the corner, knitting something indefinable.
—There will be no magic, whatsoever. Magic is either a poverty-stricken necessity or a wealthy fantasy. We are in neither of those straits, and what cannot be explained will be left unknown.
A glad tension had begun to show around the edges of Mr. Gibbons as he saw that it would be a real puppet show. Now, each proof that Molly made of her seriousness was joined with the forgotten vitality of his long life’s puppetry.
—Death of puppets: still to be spoken of. Show: not funny. Theme: sickness (grand scale). Villain: none.
Here Mr. Gibbons drew up like a struck horse.
—I say, young lady, I really do, I must say, a puppet show with no villain. Why, we shall have to talk this through. I don’t know that it can be done, and even if it could, well, why would you want such a thing, and then there is the matter of what is the glue to hold it all together, and how I have already been thinking of how it might be, and, Molly. I’m not sure this will do.
Molly stared up at him with determination.
He continued,
—Three acts, yes. Forwards, backwards, as you like. No audience, I suppose.
He put down the sheet and looked at her.
—As for the audience, well, we’ll see about that.
He winked at Mrs. Gibbons.
—But for the rest, yes, let’s talk over here where Mrs. Gibbons can’t hear us.
Molly and Mr. Gibbons went to the far side of the room. A moment later, Molly returned for her paper, and dashed back again. From the corner, much scribbling and fuming.
William had passed along four more streets and had been forced to hide twice more. Windows with a meager light might be seen
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