Dogville Page #2

his way around actually playing.

He had not yet fully comprehend

this meeting business, he claimed.

Maybe you should just let them be?

I don't think so... I... I...

What if they're just fine as they are?

You think they're fine?

I don't think so.

I think there is a lot

this country has forgotten.

I just try and refresh folk's memory

by way of illustration.

So... so the illustration for tomorrow?

mmmh.. I don't know.

See if the people of Dogville have

a problem with the acceptance.

What they really need is something

for them to accept,

something tangible,

like a gift.

Why in the heck would someone

up and give us a gift?

I don't know.

I might have to do some thinking.

Wait, wait, .. the ...

we're missing a piece.

We won't be able to play.

My mind is sharp tonight.

'Night, Bill.

[Narrator] Despite considerable effort

on his part to prolong things,

Tom had achieved the triumph

at the checkerboard pretty quickly.

It had started to rain and

the wind had become a regular gale

when Tom strolled home through Elm Street.

If Tom were to prove that the citizens of Dogville

had a problem receiving in his lecture in the next day

he sorely lacked an illustration,

a gift.

Bill might have been right.

It hadn't exactly rained gifts

on this particular township.

There was no doubt in his mind.

They were gun shots.

The pile driver in the marshes

didn't sound like that at all.

The shots had come from down in the valley,

or perhaps from Canyon Road some place

in the direction of Georgetown.

He listened for more shots for ages.

But they were not repeated.

A tad disappointed, Tom sat down

on the old lady's bench to think,

to hang onto the feeling of danger

for a moment.

But it wasn't long before his thoughts

were back on his favorite subjects again,

and in the midst of the storm they metamorphosed

into articles and novels and great gatherings

that'd listen in silence to Tom after the publication

of yet another volume that scourged and purged the human soul.

And he saw men,

and among them even other writers,

throw their arms round one another as,

through his words, life had opened up for them anew.

It hadn't been easy.

But by his diligence and application

to narrative and drama his message had gotten through,

and asked about his technique he would

have to say but one word:

"illustration".

Tom could have spent another

half hour or more on the bench,

but another unusual noise roused him.

It was Moses barking.

Oh, that wasn't unusual in itself,

but it was the way he barked that was new.

His barking was not loud,

but more of a snarl,

as if the danger was quite close at hand

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