“—, I don’t look like no East!” snorts Dirty.
“I don’t think I do either,” says I. “Anyway, I ain’t seen nobody from the East that looks a — of a lot like me. How does she come that we’re inflicted with this idea, Wick?”
“Don’t ask me. My —, it ain’t none of my doin’s. I’ve got all the grief I can stand. You better ask Magpie or Jasmine. They fixed it all up between ’em.”
“Do we wear costumes?” asks Dirty.
“Search me. My wife does. Mosquito-bar! My —, can yuh see my wife in a mosquito-bar dress?”
“I’d like to,” says Dirty.
And then we left. Wick hadn’t ought to be so finicky. His wife is about five feet four inches tall and weighs two hundred and fifty. She also wheezes considerable in her talk. Mrs. Gonyer is six feet two inches tall, and so danged thin that she rattles when she walks. Mrs. Mighty Jones ain’t no taller than Mrs. Smith, and she don’t weigh a hundred.
Me and Dirty don’t get much satisfaction around that town. Magpie goes to Paradise to advertise the affair, and to probably do a lot of braggin’ about himself. We runs into Scenery Sims, who has his eyes focused on the wine when it is red, and he ain’t exactly what you’d call coherent.
“I—I ain’t much,” he tells us tearful-like.
We agrees with him, which don’t help him none.