The actors were so engrossed in what they were doing that they did not hear the startled cries of the audience. In fact, they had no idea that their audience had arrived until they felt themselves being pulled apart and separated into individuals.
Biscuit was the first one to be separated from the mass, but he gave his mother no sign of recognition until she had obtained a firm grip on his ear and informed him in biting tones that she had never expected to see the day when she would find him fighting like a drunken rowdy.
Then he cried joyously, with partly feigned intoxication:
"Hello, ma, ol' girl! I sure didn't know you! I'm glad you got here in time to shee me plead! The rest of these kids think they can plead azh good azh I can, but they can't! They can't plead worth a darn!"
Mrs. Westfall relinquished her hold on the ear as if it had been a hot coal. Her jaw fell. Her breath came with difficulty. The leering face, the disrespect, the profanity! It was more than she could bear. She was shocked. She was humiliated! She was dumfounded!
Quite unmindful of his mother's presence Biscuit lurched towards the gasping members of her temperance flock and called out invitingly:
"Have a little liquor, ladies! Then I'll plead for you! Hey, bartender!"—he stalked over and prodded Sube with his foot—"Wake up there, and 'tend to your customers!"
"Don't touch me," growled Sube. "I'm an awful sick boy!"
"Shick! Who's shick? You?—Aw, come off! You're only playin' up!" bawled Biscuit. "You wazh laughin' louder'n anybody a minute ago!"
But the truth of Sube's assertion was soon apparent to all. He was undeniably sick. And the mere sight of his distress seemed to have an unfavorable effect on the other thespians, for one by one they were seized with similar spasms. Biscuit, who was the last to succumb, was the sickest of all. His moans were the loudest, his convulsions the most violent, his cramps the most griping.