“Float?” says Dirty. “My —, they’re ignorant, Ike. There ain’t water enough in this town to float a cork. We’ve done give our word to see that this here pe-rade is a howlin’ success; but after it’s over, me and you starts a pilgrimage. I sicken of the flesh-pots, jack-pots, et cettery. Long may she wave. Let’s have another libation to old man Backus.”
And that’s the way she went. Bill Thatcher and his orchestra showed up a little later on—a bull-fiddle, a squeeze-organ and a jews-harp. Bill’s boy, Ham, is the squeeze-organist, and old “Frenchy” Deschamps is doin’ the moanin’ on the harp.
“Kinda wanted t’ know what kind of music Magpie wanted us to play,” explains Bill. “We’ve got all kinds.”
“You fellers graduated from ‘Sweet Marie’?” asked Dirty.
“That’s good music,” says Bill kinda indignant-like. “If yuh don’t like that, we can play it any old way you want it.”
Some of Paradise comes that night, and among ’em is the gang from the Cross J. Chuck gets me aside and asks how we’re comin’ on the animal stealin’. I points out the difficulties, showin’ him how close Piperock is guardin’ their zoo.
“Get ’em durin’ the parade,” says Chuck. “Everybody will be interested in that, don’tcha see?”
“Can’t be did,” says I. “I’m part of the parade.”
“What part are you, Ike?”
“I’m half of the east end,” says I. “Now you know as much as I do.”