BEELER.

_As he puts on an old fur cap._

An out-and-out fakir!

RHODA.

You don't know him.

BEELER.

I suppose you do, after forty-eight hours. What in the name of nonsense is he, anyway? And this deaf and dumb Indian boy he drags around with him. What's his part in the show?

RHODA.

I know very little about either of them. But I know Mr. Michaelis is not--what you say.

BEELER.

Well, he's a crank at the best of it. He's worked your aunt up now so's she can't sleep. You brought him here, and you've got to get rid of him.

_Exit by outer door, with inarticulate grumblings, among which can be distinguished._

Hump! Ulrich Michaelis! There's a name for you.

ANNIE.

What's a fakir?

_Rhoda does not answer._

Cousin Rho, what's a fakir?

RHODA.

_Humoring her._

A man, way off on the other side of the world, in India, who does strange things.

ANNIE.

What kind of things?

RHODA.

Well, for instance, he throws a rope up in the air, right up in the empty air, with nothing for it to catch on, and then--he--climbs-- up--the--rope!

ANNIE.

Don't he fall?

_Rhoda shakes her head in portentous negation._

_Steps are heard descending the stairs. The child fidgets nervously._

ANNIE.

Listen! He's coming down!

RHODA.

Yes, he's coming down, right out of the blue sky.

ANNIE.

_In a panic._

Let me go.

_She breaks away and retreats to the hall door, watching the stair door open, and Ulrich Michaelis enter. Thereupon, with a glance of frightened curiosity, she flees. Michaelis is a man of twenty-eight or thirty, and his dark, emaciated face, wrinkled by sun and wind, looks older. His abundant hair is worn longer than common. His frame, though slight, is powerful, and his way of handling himself has the freedom and largeness which come from much open-air life.

There is nevertheless something nervous and restless in his movements. He has a trick of handling things, putting them down only to take them up again immediately, before renouncing them for good. His face shows the effect of sleeplessness, and his gray flannel shirt and dark, coa.r.s.e clothing are rumpled and neglected._

RHODA.

_As he enters._

Good morning.

MICHAELIS.

_Watching Annie's retreat._

Is--is that child afraid of me?

RHODA.

_As she adds the finishing touches to the breakfast table._

Oh, Annie's a queer little body. She has her mother's nerves. And then she sees no one, living here on the back road. If this dreadful fog ever lifts, you'll see that, though we're quite near town, it's almost as if we were in the wilderness.

_The stair door opens, and an Indian boy, about sixteen years old, enters. He is dressed in ordinary clothes; his dark skin, longish hair, and the noiseless tread of his moccasined feet, are the only suggestions of his race. He bows to Rhoda, who returns his salutation; then, with a glance at Michaelis, he goes out doors._

_Rhoda nods toward the closing door._

It's really him Annie's afraid of. He's like a creature from another world, to her.

MICHAELIS.

_Looks at her in an odd, startled way._