She turned back towards the stage. The Murray woman ’d just finished one of them songs of hern, and the Judge was talkin’ again. “Ladies and gents,” he says, “we shall not drag out our program too long. Fer the reason that I know just what you-all want to hear most. And that is, the result of the contest.”
That railroad gang begun t’ holler.
Don’t know why,–wasn’t no reason fer it, but my heart went plumb down into my boots. “Aw, little Macie!” I says to myself; “aw, little Macie!” Say! I come mighty nigh prayin’ over it!
“The count fer the prettiest gal,” goes on the Judge, “is complete. Miss de Mille, kindly bring for’ard the watch. I shall have to ast some gent to escort the fortunate young lady to the platform.” (I seen a brakeman start over to Mollie Brown.)
“I don’t intend”–the Judge again–“to keep you in suspenders no longer. And I reckon you’ll all be glad to know” (here he give a bow) “that the winner is–Miss Macie Sewell.”
Wal, us punchers let out a yell that plumb cracked the ceiling. “Wow! wow! wow! Macie Sewell!” And we whistled, and kicked the floor, and banged the benches, and whooped.
Doctor Bugs got to his feet, puttin’ his stylish hat and gloves on his chair, and crookin’ a’ elbow. Wal, I reckon this part wasn’t vulgar!
Then, she stood up, took holt of his arm, and stepped out into the aisle. She was smilin’ a little, but kinda sober yet, I thought. She went towards the Judge slow, and up the steps. He helt out his hand. “With the compliments of the company,” he says. She took the watch. Then she turned.
Another cheer–a whopper.
She stood there, lookin’ like a’ angel, ’r a bird, ’r a little bobbin’ rose.