successful outbreak.

Potter threw his manuscript upon the table, a gesture that
caused the shoulders of Packer to move in a visible shudder,
and the company, all eyes fixed upon the face of the star,
suddenly wore the look of people watching a mysterious sealed
packet from which a muffled ticking is heard. The bellowing and
the sawing and the hammering increased in fury.

In the orchestra a rusty gleam of something like mummified
pleasure passed unseen behind the spectacles of old Carson
Tinker. "Stage-hands are the devil," he explained to the
stupefied Canby. "Rehearsals bore them and they love to hear
what an actor says when his nerves go to pieces. If Potter
blows up they'll quiet down to enjoy it and then do it again
pretty soon. If he doesn't blow up he'll take it out on
somebody else later."

Potter stood silent in the centre of the stage, expressionless,
which seemed to terrify the stage-manager. "Just one second,
Mr. Potter!" he screamed, his brow pearly with the anguish of
apprehension. "Just one second, sir!"

He went hotfoot among the disturbers, protesting, commanding,
imploring, and plausibly answering severe questions. "Well,
when do you expect us to git this work done?" "We got our work
to do, ain't we?" until finally the tumult ceased, the saw
slowing down last of all, tapering off reluctantly into a
silence of plaintive disappointment; whereupon Packer resumed
his place, under a light at the side of the stage, turning the