So much for the melancholy set.
From the Bar percolates the lubricated melodiousness of the few regular customers who constitute the population of Fever Flat, with the exception of three worn-out women folks, two haggard cows and three hundred or so variegated dogs. The female element are to home, the dogs, astray and astir, with lamentable choruses.
Sounds from the Bar, samples only.]
A Jolly Soul [hoarsely]. Pitch into her, boys! Tune up your gullets! [With quavering pathos.] "She was born in old Kentucky"—
Another Such [with peeve]. Aw, shet up, that's moldy! Giv's that Tennessee warble, Hank!
Voice of Hank [rather rich and fine].
"When your heart was mine, true love,
And your head lay on my breast,
You could make me believe
By the falling of your arm
That the sun rose up in the west—"
[There is a momentary pause, filled in by—
A Voice. Y'oughter go courtin' with that throat o' yourn, Hank.
Mace [as if misanthrope]. Aw, women—