"You're the
first white man that ever took a chance with me without lashing me
to the medicine ball, and I'll make good for you, all right, won't
I, Dodey?"
"You betcher sweet!" she mumbled, with a mouth full of Pommery.
"Say!" said Skinski to me, after we had ordered some breadstuff for
the leading lady, "you're not such a late train with the
sleight-of-hand gag yourself, Mr. Manager!"
"Oh! I'm only a piker at it," I replied, modestly. "I can do a few
moth-eaten tricks with the cards and I've studied out a few of the
illusions, enough to know how to do them without breaking an ankle,
but I'm not cute enough to be on the stage."
Skinski laughed, and Dodo looked over another glass of Pommery long
enough to say, "You betcher sweet!"
"Well," said Skinski, leading a bevy of French-fried potatoes up to
his moustache, "you'll know enough about it after I rehearse you to
go on and do the show when we hit a fried-egg burg, where there's
only a Mr. and Mrs. Audience to greet our earnest endeavors. Say,
boys, you'll get a lot of fricasseed experience trailing with this
troupe, believe me!"
"I'm only going to be with you for a few days," I answered. "Mr.
Jefferson will be your permanent manager."
"The hell I will!" spluttered Bunch.
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