We found Wick Smith at the store. He hoodled Hassayampa into takin’ charge of the animals again and is runnin’ his own store; but he ain’t cheerful.
“Tomorrow is Labor Day,” says he with tears in his voice. “I ort to be happy, I s’pose, ’cause the proceeds of the pag-unt is to help pay me for them animals; but somehow I can’t seem to rend the veil, as Old Testament says, and see the silver linin’.”
“Aw, it’ll be all right,” says Dirty. “Parades ain’t much to worry about.”
“Thasso?” Wick squints at Dirty. “You’ve survived some of our parades, ain’t yuh, Dirty?”
“Yeah, but you’ve got to figure that Piperock is civilized. It ain’t noways what she used to be, Wick. Right now Piperock is meek and mild.”
“I’ll betcha,” nods Wick. “Well, I still has hopes, but—I dunno. I can’t quite figure out my wife lookin’ like a statoo of Victory, nor I can’t figure out Mrs. Pete Gonyer and Mrs. Mighty Jones depictin’ Progress. My —, my wife don’t look like Victory.”
“You ain’t never won a battle from her yet, have yuh?” I asks.
“No, that’s a cinch. Well, mebbe it’ll be all right. You fellers ain’t got no easy chore yoreselves.”
“We ain’t?” I asks. “What have we got to do with it, Wick?”
“You two depicts the East, Ike. Anyway, that’s what they’ve proclaimed for yuh.”