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Updated: May 26, 2025
"Not now!" he commanded sharply. "Wait. Later. . . ." He had turned abruptly and moved away in a haste which carried him with long strides down the street. Drennen, the rigidity of his body giving way to a little shiver which ran up and down him from shoulders to calves, stared speechlessly after Sothern.
I have never been able to see much in their way of doing it. Marlowe does some things well, but I confess that to see her now as Juliet is too great a strain on me. As for Sothern, he's a good romantic actor, but not a Shakespearean one." "They play this -'The Taming of the Shrew' do they not? It seems to me they were here last spring." "Quite likely. I think they try.
The wire came out fairly white with the heat. Mr. Sothern took the coil in his hands and cooly proceeded to wrap it round his left leg to the knee. Having done so, he stood on the table in the center of the circle and requested the committee to examine the wrappings and the leg and report if both were there. The committee did so and reported in the affirmative.
"In the name of the Law!" "Fight it out, Sefton, if you are a man!" shouted Drennen, his own rifle at his shoulder. "I am going to kill you any way!" Ernestine was crying out inarticulately; no one listened to the thing she was trying to say. She had waited too long. Marshall Sothern, a queer smile upon his lips which Drennen was never to forget, strode to his son's side. "Dave," he said gently.
Once, in the late autumn, he had found a letter from Sothern waiting for him at the bank In Lebarge. He left a brief answer to be forwarded, saying simply: "I want to see you, but not now. After I have finished the work which I have to do, perhaps when next spring comes, we can take our hunting trip." When the spring came it brought Drennen with it into the North Woods.
Madden considered swiftly: Drennen was unconscious; Sothern could do nothing with him immediately. He drew Hasbrook aside and the two went slowly up the street. Sothern beckoned a man he knew in the crowd, a little fellow named Jimmie Andrews. "Get a horse," he said quietly. "I want you to carry a couple of letters to Lebarge for me. If you can't get a horse any other way buy one.
Marshall Sothern, returning from the railroad station, found Drennen waiting for him in his private office. "Well, Mr. Drennen," he said quietly, going about the table and to his chair, "how does it feel to be worth a cool hundred thousand?"
It is in the staging and acting, the whole performance and management, of such typical plays of Shakespeare as "Hamlet," "Romeo and Juliet," and "Twelfth Night" that Mr. Sothern and Miss Marlowe have shown the whole extent of their powers, and have read us the lesson we most needed.
Sothern was the only quite sane Hamlet; his madness is all the outer coverings of wisdom; there was nothing fantastic in his grave, subdued, powerful, and piteous representation, in which no symbol, no metaphysical Faust, no figment of a German brain, loomed before us, but a man, more to be pitied and not less to be honoured than any man in Elsinore.
"And a thing like that you can't throw away." Presently, from deep thoughtfulness, she said hesitantly: "I want to talk to Mr. Drennen. There is something I must say to him." "Let it wait a day or so," Sothern answered. "He is not himself right now. And George might misunderstand."
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