“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Art Miller. “This is one funny game. Like a minstrel show. Pete, ask him why he thinks yuh blowed on it.”
Comes a little bit of light, and I feels Scenery climb to his feet. There he stands in the gloom, pointing up and down and sidewise, and then he squeaks:
“Lo, there bringth a slight—uh—slineth a bite—I mean—a—a—lineth a—let’s go to it—uh—to it.”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” howls somebody. “Pete Gonyer’s lightin’ the moon!”
I turns and takes a look. There is Pete at the back of the stage. He’s got the cover off the moon, and is trying to get the old lamp to light.
“Dang it!” he howls. “I’ve turned the wick plumb into the bottom!”
“Whoa, Maud!” howls Dirty. “Help me hold her, Ike!”
I turns, and there is Maud S standing on her hind legs, and, as I look, them humps, which wasn’t well cinched, being as she was laying down at the time, swing down and just about fill up all the space between her front and hind legs.
“Ho-hold her!” wails Dirty; but Maud S thinks she’s a circus animal.
Hold her? Man, that mule, after all these years, found out that she had authority to go to some place. She waltzes around a couple of times, busts a hole in the stage and falls over backwards into the orchestra.