On the other hand, when we write we shall need to distinguish action that indicates character from that which is merely incidental to the plot.  In order to develop a story to its climax we may need to have the persons concerned perform certain actions.  If by skillful wording we can show not only what was done but also to some extent the way in which it was done, we may give our readers some notion of the character of the individuals in our story. (See Section 10.) This portrayal of character may be aided by the use of description. (See Section 134.)

Notice that the purpose of the following selection is to indicate the character of Pitkin rather than to relate the incident.  If the author were to relate other doings of Pitkin, he would need to make the actions of Pitkin in each case consistent with the character indicated by this sketch.

It was the day of our great football game with Harvard, and when I heard my friend Pitkin returning to the room we shared in common, I knew that he was mad.  And when I say mad I mean it,—­not angry, nor exasperated, nor aggravated, nor provoked, but mad:  not mad according to the dictionary, that is, crazy, but mad as we common folk use the term.  So I say my friend Pitkin was mad.  I thought so when I heard the angry click-clack of his heels on the cement walk, and I carefully put all the chairs against the wall; I was sure of it when the door slammed, and I set the coal scuttle in the corner behind the stove.  There was no doubt of it when he mounted the stairs three steps at a time, and I hastily cleared his side of the desk.  You may wonder why I did all these things, but you have never seen Pitkin mad.

Why was Pitkin mad?  I did not then know.  I had not seen him yet, for I was so busy—­so very, very busy—­that I did not look up when he slammed his books on the desk with a resounding whack which caused the ink bottle to tremble and the lampshade to clatter as though chattering its teeth with fear, while the pens and pencils, tumbling from the holder, scurried away to hide themselves under the desk.

I was still busily engaged with my books while he threw his wet overcoat and dripping hat on the white bedspread and kicked his rubbers under the stove, the smell of which soon warned me to rescue them before they melted.  Pitkin must be very mad this time.  He was taking off his collar and even his shoes.  Pitkin always took off his collar when very mad, and if especially so, put on his slippers, even if he had to change them again in fifteen minutes.

“What are you doing?  Why don’t you say something?  You are a pretty fellow not to speak or even look up.”  Such was Pitkin’s first remark.  Sometimes he was talkative and would insist on giving his opinion of things in general.  At other times he preferred to be left alone to bury himself and his wrath in his books.  Since he had failed to poke the fire, though the room was very warm, I had decided that he would dive into his books