“No, but you did, Mister Simpkins.”
“Like ——! I’ve got mine.”
“Well,” says I after due consideration, “somebody did. I’ve got two.”
And then three voices blended in the night air. The last one seemed to be a little bit stronger than the others.
“Suffering sidewinders!” wails Magpie. “Where did the last one come from? I thought this was a cow country and I finds it’s kids. Hungry kids! Aw-w-w-w, shut up!”
They did. Magpie got up on his feet and fussed with a damp cigaret-paper.
“You’ve got to show ’em who’s boss, Ike,” he states. “They recognizes the voice of authority, and, believe me, I know how to quell ’em. Now we’ve got to take ’em home.”
“Be it ever so humble,” I agrees.
Then we pokes out into the damp night, Magpie ahead with the tenor and me behind, with the soprano and alto. It is becoming some perade, if you asks me.
They may be sweet little darlings—we ain’t never gazed upon their faces—but I know that what I’ve called ’em under my breath ain’t going to be of great cheer to ’em in the life to come.