“I?” says the lady, kinda dignified-like. “I am an arteest.”
“Oh—yeah. Kinda like what, ma’am? Do yuh paint?”
“I dance.”
“By cripes!” grunts Muley. “We’ll give a dance.”
“I—I am an interpretive dancer,” she explains.
“Oh, yeah,” nods Telescope. “I see.”
“You’re a kindly liar,” says Chuck, “because you don’t see nothin’. Ma’am, I’m plumb ignorant of the word you used.”
“Why—I—er—do nature dances, don’t you know?”
“Nature? Oh, yeah.”
“Oh, yeah,” mimics Hen. “You see just like Telescope did, Chuck.”