“Not until she’s been a ca-mel, maw,” says Wick, and then he goes out to set down beside his new drum.
Dirty sets down beside Maud S and takes her head in his lap.
“Ain’t the Cross J quartet going to sing?” asks Matilda.
Old Testament shakes his head.
“Nope. They got mad—them and Tellurium. They all went home.”
“Tweet, tweet, tweet,” goes the flute.
“Bum! Bum! Bum!” goes the drum.
“Whar-r-r-oo-o-o-o-o-m-m-m-m,” goes the jew’s-harp.
“The orchestra is tunin’ up,” observes Dirty. “We ain’t got long to live, Ike.”
Then old Judge Steele steps out through the curtain, and the hum of conversation dies down.