“You never played in Shakespeare, didja?” I asks.
“Nope, only in Dry Lake. This was a home talent show. But I’m good. The stage shore got robbed when I turned my talents to punchin’ cows.”
“Yeah, and for turnin’ yore talents yuh ought to be arrested for cruelty to dumb animals,” says I.
The next day Hank Potts showed up, unfolded from his bronc, and sat down with us on the porch of the adobe ranchhouse. Hank looks kinda shopworn, as yuh might say.
“I came out to rest m’ nerves,” says he. “I’m a actor.”
“What kind of a actor?” queried Peewee.
“Good. I’m the leadin’ man—hee-roo—gits the fair damsel in the end.”
“Who is the fair damsel—Miss Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T?” I asks.
“Don’t be comical, Horde,” says Hank kinda sad-like.
“Speak—yo’re among friends,” says Peewee.