His wife brushed the crumbs from the lap of her flowered satin evening gown, and followed him. The beauties in the bath robes trailed off to their dressing-room. The boy began to gather up the beer mugs.
He looked commiseratingly at “Shine.” “Wish yuh had my job,” he said. “I dreamt I was a music box las’ night, an’ they wound me up by the arm. I got a cramp in ’t this mornin’, an’ he says he’ll dock me ten cents fer slowin’ down to rub it.”
“Shine” did not speak.
The boy looked after the Queens of the Harem. “Wish I was a woman,” he said, “an’ didn’t have to do nuthin’ but look picturesquew.”
He sighed. He pinched off the lighted end of his cigarette, put the butt in his pocket, and went out, grumbling, with the beer mugs.
“Shine” remained hunched over the table, staring at nothing and slowly gathering venom. When he went out to the platform, he was full of it, bitter with it, almost indeed sober and clear-headed with it.
XXI
“LADIES an’ gen’leman,” Simpson announced, “I’m from Texas. I’m from Texas where they valyoo friendship more than money. An’ what I’m goin’ to tell yuh is between man an’ man.” He straightened up with dignity. “I’m the pro-prietor o’ this show. I’m monarch of all I survey.”