“So’ve we,” says Muley. “He won’t let us shing, and now he don’t want no Sandy Clawses.”
“I’d make a good one, too,” says Tellurium.
“Yeah, you would—not,” says Magpie. “I’d just as soon see a wild bull come in there dressed like that, Tellurium. You’d ruin the show, you know it.”
“Let’s not talk to him,” says Muley. “He has no soul, Tellurium.
“He won’t let us shing. Nossir. No Sandy Claws, no shongs—where’s your ol’ Christmas?”
“Come on, Ike,” says Magpie. “Let ’em wail. I’m goin’ to pull off one show that Piperock can be proud of, yuh bet your life.”
We went up to Mint Hall. Mrs. Smith and Matilda Mudgett are there, sort of strutting around like a pair of fool-hens. Ricky Henderson, Wick Smith and Frenchy Deschamps are there, fixing their orchestra seats. Wick’s new drum is there, and he’s some proud of it.
“Mr. Harper,” says Matilda, “have you ever heard ‘Spring, Lovely Spring’?”
“Not since last April,” says I.
“We are going to render it tonight,” says she.