At seven o'clock Dodo came in with one of those sunburst souses,
and as she went sailing by to her dressing room she gave us the
haughty head and murmured, "You betcher sweet!"
Seven thirty and no Skinski.
I was nervous, but I wasn't a marker to Bunch. He had long since
graduated from biting his finger nails, and was now engaged in
eating the brim of his opera hat.
Seven forty-five and no Skinski.
I was afraid to tell Bunch what I was thinking, and Bunch was
afraid to think for fear he'd spill something.
Eight o'clock came and still no Skinski.
It was pitiful.
I began to see visions of an insulted audience reaching for my
collar over the prostrate form of my partner in crime.
An usher came back at 8:10 and told us the house was full.
I grinned at him foolishly and Bunch fell over a stage brace and
disgraced himself.
At 8:15 the orchestra leader came up to see why we didn't ring in
and Bunch told him to ring off.
I told Beethoven, or whatever his name was, to tune up and play
everything in sight till I gave him the warning.
At 8:20 Ma'moiselle Dodo waltzed out of her dressing room made up
to look like a cream puff.
"Where's Skinski?" I shrieked. "It's nearly 8:30 and he's keeping
that mob waiting.
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