at her companion & stands, giving the knob an extra turn; we stomp & whistle for the mute who is dancing on one foot, trying to loosen the screw that squeaks in its socket; he tosses it off to the lady who presses it hard to her lips. His brother is calling him back to center stage where he is struck on the swelling thumb, across both thighs, the face & top of head, the hose leaving welts to last the matinee. He limps upstage, smoothing away his bruises, & removes the first black cloth; we see a roughshod contraption of four legs, a comical horse's head & a backbone too sharp for sitting; we are told it is The Timber Mare of dungeon days. If he could make a sound, it would be now, but nothing comes from the open mouth, and it is over; he is on one leg again, pulling his trousers on, as his brother skips to the second cloth, giving us The Rack, its huge wheel glistening like a spool of thread used up. The mute is fitted to the bottom ropes & cuffed to those above; he is asked questions of faith, & nods his head in answer, but none will do; the stomach skin stretches, the jacket slides up, the shirttail comes out; but the brother is tired of turning the stile; the ropes sag, the mute slumps, the curtain falls. We hurry to the lobby where the twins have promised to mingle,