“You touch my legs, and I’ll kick yuh loose from the surroundin’ country,” hisses Susie.
Hank straightens up and turns toward the audience.
“Ah, I cannot touch her,” says he. “She looks so peaceful in death.”
Susie took a kick at me and I got away fast. She turned over and got to her feet, as Hank lifts up both hands and says real loud, “I’ll leave her here for the angels, while I go to ride for love.”
But he didn’t. Susie socked him one on the back of the neck with a right swing and he went off the stage into the three-piece orchestra, with both legs in the air, while the committee stood up and whistled through their fingers, and somebody had sense enough to yank down the curtain.
The committee brought Hank back with them. He was smiling sweetly, but as an actor he’s a total loss.
“This here show,” says Dog-Rib, “is kinda jumpy, it seems to me. We’ve been tryin’ all along to find out what it’s all about. That there last act was plenty actful, as yuh might say, but we dunno what it was about.”
I didn’t wait to listen to the argument. Peewee got that bottle they used in the last act, and we emptied it together. We’re leanin’ up against a black curtain at the back of the stage, and all to once somethin’ hit Peewee and knocked him plumb up past the treadmill, where he landed on his hands and knees.
“Yuh better git away from there, Hozie,” says Limpy. “That racehorse is behind the curtain.”
We stretched Peewee out on the floor in a corner, and the rest of us are asked to come out on the stage. They’re all inquirin’ for Miss Wimple.