“It’s thisaway,” sighs Hank. “We held a meetin’ last night. Miss Wimple aims to put on a show for the benefit of the church.”
“And the meetin’ busted up in a fight,” says Peewee, bein’ somewhat of a prophet.
“A discussion,” says Hank. “Miss Wimple has a play of her own, which she desires us to play. Bein’ as she is to furnish the play, train the actors, et cettery, and all that, she’s to receive seventy-five percent of the profits, the other twenty-five percent goin’ to Judgment Jones and his church.
“That started a argument among us. Miss Wimple argues that her play is a dinger, and the only available play in this county, when my wife—”
“She would,” agrees Peewee.
“I never knowed Susie wrote a play,” confesses Hank. “I never knowed a thing about it, until she steps out and says we can have her play free.”
“It would be worth at least that,” says Peewee.
“She calls it—” Hank stops to sigh deeplike—“The Curse of Drink. And me runnin’ a first-class rum shop.”
“Mebbe,” says Peewee, “she meant sody water or some soft drink.”
Hank shakes his head. “I read it, Peewee.”