“That’s a —— of a orchestra.”
“Yeah? ‘Frenchy’ Deschamps fell out with Bill Thatcher, and he’s goin’ to play his jew’s-harp in our orchestra. That makes three good pieces for our side, Ike.”
“Tin whistle bass drum and a pheumonia noise.”
“Mm-m-m-m, well, it won’t be no Suzer’s band, that’s a fact, but it’ll be music. Matilda Mudgett is going to sing something sacred, and Wick says that his wife wants to recite.”
“Anything that Matilda could sing would seem sacred,” says I.
“She could sing the ‘Lone Star Trail’ and make it sound like ‘Rock of Ages!’ Magpie, a face like hers would drive the evil from a burro’s soul.”
“Uh—I almost forgot, Ike. You’re going to be a wise man.”
“You’re danged well right I am. I’m going to be so wise that I won’t be within seven miles of here on Christmas Eve. I ain’t going to be wise—I’m wise right now.”
“You and Dirty Shirt and Half Mile Smith.”
“No-oo-o-o!”