No--no--no! Is he asking if he shall shoot himself? (_shaking his head
violently_) Oh, no--no! Um--_um_!

DICK: Hardly seems a man would shoot himself because he can't get to his
breakfast.

HARRY: I'm coming to believe people would do anything! (TOM _is making
another inquiry with the revolver_) No! not here. Don't shoot yourself.
(_trying hard to get the word through_) _Shoot_ yourself. I mean--don't,
(_petulantly to_ DICK) It's ridiculous that you can't make a man
understand you when he looks right at you like that. (_turning back to_
TOM) Read my lips. Lips. I'm saying--Oh damn. Where is Claire? All
right--I'll explain it with motions. We wanted the salt ... (_going over
it to himself_) and Claire wouldn't let us go out for it on account of
the temperature. Salt. Temperature. (_takes his egg-cup to the door,
violent motion of shaking in salt_) But--no (_shakes his head_) No salt.
(_he then takes the thermometer, a flower pot, holds them up to_ TOM) On
account of the temperature. Tem-per-a--(TOM _is not getting it_)
Oh--well, what can you do when a man don't _get_ a thing? (TOM _seems to
be preparing the revolver for action_. HARRY _pounds on the inner door_)
Claire! Do you want Tom to shoot himself?

(_As he looks in there, the trap-door lifts, and CLAIRE comes half-way
up._)

CLAIRE: Why, what is Tom doing out there, with a revolver?

HARRY: He is about to shoot himself because you've locked him out from
his breakfast.