“Wick Smith, you started this,” says Mrs. Smith. “You told me I was narrer. You said I was fifty years behind the times, didn’t you?”
“That ⸺ Magpie Simpkins put them words in my mouth, Arabellie.”
“I won’t stand for it!” yelps Pete. “No woman of mine can⸺”
“Pete, you shut your face!” whoops Mrs. Gonyer. “If you don’t want to see me imitate a raindrop—vamoose. I sure am goin’ to rattle on the roof.”
“I’ll git out a injunction,” says Judge Steele. “By mighty, I’ll declare it a public nuisance! I’ll stop this here⸺”
“You’ll set down and keep your face shut,” says Magpie. “You five pelicans are goin’ to set right down and look and listen. Has you all got tickets?”
None of ’em has bought a ticket, and they opines they won’t.
“Scenery,” says Magpie, “take two dollars from each of ’em.”
Them five arose up an yelped like a pack of wolves, but Scenery got ten dollars out of the bunch, and then we made ’em take front seats.
We hears some gosh-awful sounds coming up the stairs, and into the door comes Bill Thatcher. He’s got one of them Scotch wind-pipe instruments and it’s wailing like a lost soul. Behind him comes Frenchy Deschamps. Neither of ’em are in any shape to make music for anything except a dog-fight, but they flops down in their chairs at the front of the stage and acts like they meant business.