“My wife is trying out a new comedy line,” the flat-chested one observed unemotionally. “Trouble is it never gets over out front. If she ever did get it across the footlights I could raise the price of admission and get away with it. How far is it to Rhyolite?”
“Rhyolite? Twenty or twenty-five miles, mebby.” Casey gave him an inquiring look.
“Can we get there in time to paper the town and hire a hall to show in, mister?” Casey saw the mud-caked feet move laboriously toward the rear of the car.
“Yes, ma’am, I guess you can. There ain’t any town, though, and it ain’t got any hall in it, ner anybody to go to a show.”
The woman laughed. “That’s like my prayer book. Well, Jack, you certainly have got a powerful eye, but you’ve been trying to look this outfit out of the mud for an hour, and I haven’t saw it move an inch, so far. Let’s just try something else.”
“A prayer outa your prayer book, maybe,” the flat-chested one retorted, not troubling to move or to turn his head.
Casey blinked and looked again. The woman who appeared from the farther side of the car might have been the creature of his dream, so far as her face, her hair, and her voice went. Her hair was yellow, unmistakably yellow. Her eyes were blue as Casey’s own, and she had nice teeth and showed them in a red-lipped smile. A more sophisticated man would have known that the powder on her nose was freshly applied, and that her reason for remaining so long hidden from his sight while she talked to him was revealed in the moist color on her lips and the fresh bloom on her cheeks. Casey was not sophisticated. He thought she was a beautiful woman, and asked no questions of her makeup box.
“Mister, you certainly are a godsend!”—she told him again when she faced him. “I’d call you a direct answer to prayer, only I haven’t been praying. I’ve been trying to tell Jack that the shovel is not packed under the banjos, as he thinks it was, but was left back at our last camp where he was trying to dig water out of a wet spot. Jack, dear, perhaps the gentleman has got a shovel in his car. Ain’t it a real gag, mister, us being stuck out here in a dry lake?”
Casey tipped his hat and grinned and tried not to look at her too long. Husbands of beautiful young women are frequently jealous, and Casey knew his place and meant to keep it.
All the way back to his car Casey studied the peculiar features of the meeting. He had been thinking about yellow-haired women—well! But, of course, she was married, and therefore not to be thought of save as a coincidence. Still, Casey rather regretted the existence of Jack, dear, and began to wonder why good-looking women always picked such dried-up little runts for husbands. “Show actors, by the talk,” he mused. “I wonder now if she don’t sing, mebby?”