Old Judgment Jones steps out and says, “This here is all actin’, and Zibe ain’t dead. Now, we don’t want no more interruptin’ from nobody. Amen.”
“You shore act cheerful while givin’ bad news,” says Kansas, and the show starts in ag’in.
I can’t git head nor tail to any of it. Mrs. Thursday Noon comes on, and the audience gives a big whoop. She shore sparkles, but forget what she came out there for, and proceeds to knock over a table and hit her chin on the edge of the sofy, where Miss Wimple is settin’. Her necklace got up around her ears and the dress busted between the shoulders, but they got her propped up on the sofy. The thing seems kinda deadlocked out there, so Hank Potts goes on. They gave Hank three cheers, but he don’t mind. He’s got somethin’ to say, and he’s sayin’ it.
“When yore daddy died he called me to his bedside and he says to me, ‘Howard Chesterfield, everythin’ I own has been swept away, except my two daughters and my racehorse, and I—I—’”
Hank goes bug-eyed and forgets the rest.
“The horse was too fast and one daughter was too heavy, eh?” suggests somebody from Oasis.
“Go on, Howard; go on,” begs Miss Wimple, and Hank mumbles for a minute.
“You are goin’ to ride Thunderbolt in the big race?” asks Miss Wimple.
“That’s it,” grins Hank. “Thunderbolt will win, and you’ll all git back yore fortune.”
“But we haven’t money enough left to enter the horse.”