“Ready for us to play?” asks Bill Thatcher, kicking Frenchy to wake him up.
“Use your own judgment, Bill,” says I. “I’ve done all I can, and now I’m goin’ to let nature take her course.”
I starts to step back through the curtain, when “Polecat” Perkins yells—
“Ike, I was wrong—you’re only half-cow.”
I gets back inside. Them women are all scared plumb stiff, but Mrs. Smith wheezes—
“Ladies, we’ve made our bluff—let ’er go!”
Just then Bill Thatcher’s instrument begins to wail and wail, shutting off all chances for Frenchy Deschamps to be heard.
“Sweet Marie!” howls Mrs. Smith. “Gee cripes, don’t he never learn a new tune?”
I ducks out of sight and the curtain slides back.
If Mrs. Smith knew anything about dancing she forgot every step. She trots out on the stage and starts something like Kid Carson used to call “shadow-boxing.” Then she turns around about three times, stubs her toe and falls down. Standing in a line across the stage is the rest of them females, with their hands up in the air like they was being held up by somebody with a gun.