“Do?”
“How'd they git notice to 'em?”
“Oh,” said Mr. Hartington, “cussed if that wuhn't funny. Let's see, where was I? After awhile they went over t'other side of the street, talkin' sly, waitin' for the act to end. But goldarned if it ever did end.”
For once Mr. Bixby didn't seem to understand.
“D-didn't end?”
“No,” explained Mr. Hartington; “seems they hitched a kind of nigger minstrel show right on to it—banjos and thingumajigs in front of the curtain while they was changin' scenes, and they hitched the second act right on to that. Nobody come out of the theatre at all. Funny notion, wahn't it?”
Mr. Bixby's face took on a look of extreme cunning. He smiled broadly and poked Mr. Wetherell in an extremely sensitive portion of his ribs. On such occasions the nasal quality of Bijah's voice seemed to grow.
“You see?” he said.
“Know that little man, Gibbs, don't ye?” inquired Mr. Hartington.
“Airley Gibbs, hain't it? Runs a livery business daown to Rutgers, on Lovejoy's railroad,” replied Mr. Bixby, promptly. “I know him. Knew old man Gibbs well's I do you. Mean cuss.”