“Don’t blame us,” says Dirty Shirt. “We ain’t got a danged thing to do with it—not even the disposition of our own re-mains after the massacree is over.”
“They won’t let us sing,” repeats Telescope. “Whatcha know about that?”
“Not even sing free,” admits Chuck, wiggling his ears real fast. “It ain’t reasonable. Why, they won’t have no music a-tall. Bill Thatcher’s orchestra ain’t comin’. Bill said it cost him a new bull fiddle and a drum every time he played here, and he’s savin’ up to buy a slip-horn.”
“You ought to be glad,” says Dirty Shirt. “You sure ought to, boys.”
“It’s a insult to harmony,” says Telescope. “We’ve almost got to the point where we can sing ‘Tentin’ Tonight,’ with variations, and our ‘Sweet Marie’ sure does make the shivers run up your spine. ‘Jay Bird’ Whittaker says it’s got anything beat he ever heard since he busted the ear tubes of his talkin’ machine.”
“What kind of a act does you perform, Dirty?” asks Hen Feck.
“I portrays Wisdom,” says Dirty. “There’s three of us, Hennery, three of a kind against a full house.”
“Wisdom,” proclaims Muley, “Wisdom consists of more than three things, Dirty. No three men can portray wisdom.”
“We’re goin’ to give her a try, Muley. Me and Ike and Scenery.”
“Wisdom—!” grunts Telescope. “You three?”