Here is neither the psychic telepathy of Forbes Robertson's Caesar, nor the fire-breath of E.H.

Sothern's Don Quixote.

The audience is not worked up into the deadly still mob-unity of the speaking theatre.

We late comers wait for the whole reel to start over and the goal to be indicated in the preliminary, before we can get the least bit wrought up.

The prize may be a lady's heart, the restoration of a lost reputation, or the ownership of the patent for a churn.