I can dimly see old Sam sneaking for the front of the stage. I’m mad. I got up and sneaked right after him. No man can mistake me for a sheep and get away with it. I jumps for old Sam’s back, and just then he seems to kinda drop away from me. I reckon he forgot about the five-feet drop from the stage, and I know danged well I did. I reckon I sort of lit on my head and shoulders on top of somebody. There comes a squeak from Bill Thatcher’s instrument, and then all is quiet.
I wriggled loose and starts to get up, but a strong hand grabs me by the ankle, yanks me off my feet, and I hit my head on a chair. I kinda remember being dragged down them stairs, and then I feels my carcass being dragged over rough ground. It was a long, hard trip, and I reckon I lost about all the skin on the upper half of my body. Finally I bumps over a step, gets yanked inside on to a carpet, and then I hears a voice very dimly—
“Sweetheart, I brought thee home.”
Then a light is lit, and I sees Mrs. Smith putting the chimney on a lamp. Without turning she says—
“I reckon you’ll confine your love to me after this, eh?”
Then she turns and looks at me, setting there on the floor with my back propped up against a chair. I looks around. Just inside the door, sitting on the floor, is Wick. Mrs. Smith looks at me and then at him. Then she wipes her lips and stares at Wick.
“Sweetheart, eh?” grunts Wick, getting to his feet. “Arabellie, ain’t you got no shame? Dancin’ up there without nothing on to speak of, and then you has the gall to bring your sweetheart home with yuh.”
“Did—did—didn’t I—bring you home, Wicksie?”
“You—know—danged—well—you—didn’t. I always knowed you was kinda sweet on Ike Harper.”
“On that!” She actually yelped, and pointed her finger at me. “Sweet on him?”