“They’ll never stop me now,” she said.  “I’m made.  But I wish I knew if that J was pronounced like H, in humbug.  Are there any Spanish blondes?”

It used to be the habit of the other women in the company to say to her:  “Jo, I’m blue as the devil to-day.  Come on, give us a laugh.”

She always obliged.

And then came a Sunday afternoon in late August when her laugh broke off short in the middle, and was forever after a stunted thing.

She was playing Atlantic City in a second-rate musical show.  She had never seen the ocean before, and she viewed it now with an appreciation that still had in it something of a Wapello freshness.

They all planned to go in bathing that hot August afternoon after rehearsal.  Josie had seen pictures of the beauteous bathing girl dashing into the foaming breakers.  She ran across the stretch of glistening beach, paused and struck a pose, one toe pointed waterward, her arms extended affectedly.

“So!” she said mincingly.  “So this is Paris!”

It was a new line in those days, and they all laughed, as she had meant they should.  So she leaped into the water with bounds and shouts and much waving of white arms.  A great floating derelict of a log struck her leg with its full weight, and with all the tremendous force of the breaker behind it.  She doubled up ridiculously, and went down like a shot.  Those on the beach laughed again.  When she came up, and they saw her distorted face they stopped laughing, and fished her out.  Her leg was broken in two places, and mashed in a dozen.

Jose Fyfer’s dramatic career was over. (This is not the cheery portion of the story.)

When she came out of the hospital, three months later, she did very well indeed with her crutches.  But the merry-eyed woman had vanished—­she of the Wapello colouring that had persisted during all these years.  In her place limped a wan, shrunken, tragic little figure whose humour had soured to a caustic wit.  The near-seal coat and the turquoise-and-crushed-diamond ring had vanished too.

During those agonized months she had received from the others in the company such kindness and generosity as only stage folk can show—­flowers, candy, dainties, magazines, sent by every one from the prima donna to the call boy.  Then the show left town.  There came a few letters of kind inquiry, then an occasional post card, signed by half a dozen members of the company.  Then these ceased.  Josie Fifer, in her cast and splints and bandages and pain, dragged out long hospital days and interminable hospital nights.  She took a dreary pleasure in following the tour of her erstwhile company via the pages of the theatrical magazines.

“They’re playing Detroit this week,” she would announce to the aloof and spectacled nurse.  Or:  “One-night stands, and they’re due in Muncie, Ind., to-night.  I don’t know which is worse—­playing Muncie for one night or this moan factory for a three month’s run.”