“I’ll do my bes’,” declares Peewee, “and if it comes to the worsht, I can lick about three of that committee. How about you, Hozie?”
I don’t say nothin’. Peewee takes hold of my face and squeezes it a little. It left my nose out of line and my lips open, as though I was goin’ to whistle.
“Hank, that paint hardened on Hozie,” says Peewee. “He can’t talk.”
“All right. Mebbe it’ll be better. There goes the openin’ music.”
It’s the three-piece orchestra—bull fiddle, accordion and drum, playin’ “My Old Kentucky Home,” with variations.
After that, the show started, and Hank led me and Peewee around to where we can see what’s goin’ on.
“This first act is the drawin’-room of the Witherspoon mansion,” whispers Hank. “Watch Susie and Miss Wimple; they do this well.”
I reckon I got some paint in my ears, ’cause I don’t hear so awful good, but I hears Susie sayin’, “—since my darlin’ pappy died—”
And then Dog-Rib stands up and says, “Wait a minute, will yuh. Lemme git this straight. Is Zibe Hightower dead?”
“That’s worth the price of admission,” says “Kansas” McGill, “if she gives the right answer.”