“I thinks Maud S is paralyzed,” complains Wick. “She don’t seem to have no use of her legs.”
“For this we offer much thanks,” says Dirty.
“But she’s got to get up and go with yuh,” says Wick. “You can’t leave her layin’ there on the stage.”
“She’ll get up,” declares Dirty. “I know a lot about mules. Lemme alone and don’t worry about Maud S.”
“There ain’t much use of rehearsin’,” squeaks Scenery; “I’m the main thing up there, and I’ve studied my gestures a-plenty, and I know the words fine.”
“We’ve got to put the humps on Maud S,” says Wick. “We can hang some stuff over the humps, so nobody will know she ain’t a cam-el. You know how they does in a circus, Magpie?”
Me and Dirty, not wishful to get the least hazy, decides to buy us some more bottle cheer, instead of carousing around with the common herd, and we communes with each other in my cabin, until the shades of night have come down upon us. Then we finds our way back to the hall. We’ve got a full audience—in more ways than one. Doughgod Smith has been appointed door-keeper and he annexes our guns as we goes in.
“Yuh can’t take your guns in with yuh,” he states. “Them is orders.”
He’s got a lot of belts and holsters, but few guns hanging on a hook. Dirty looks ’em over and picks out a good-looking gun, which he shoves down inside his waistband.
“Them orders don’t say yuh can’t pack a strange gun, do they?”