The Granite Jaw smoothed down the outraged rear of his head, eyes rolling and smile terrible.
"Wow!" he said, making a false feint toward him.
The Baron, shrill with hysteria, plunged into a fold of Miss Hoag's skirt.
"Don't hurt him, Jastrow. He's so awful little! Don't play rough."
THE BARON (projecting his face around a fold of skirt): Worth her weight in go-uld—go-uld!
"He's always guying me for my saving ways, Jastrow. I tell him I 'ain't got no little twenty-eight-inch wife out in San Francisco sending me pin-money. Neither am I the prize little grafter of the world. I tell him he's the littlest man and the biggest grafter in this show. Come out of there, you little devil! He thinks because I got a few hundred dollars laid by I'm a bigger freak than the one I get paid for being."
Jastrow the Granite Jaw flung the crook of his walking-stick against his hip, leaning into it, the flanges of his nostrils widening a bit, as if scenting.
"You old mountain-top," he said, screwing at the up-curving mustache, "who'd have thought you had that pretty a penny saved?"
"I don't look to see myself live and die in the show business, Mr.
Jastrow."
"Now you said something, Big Tent."