“Get up!”
Of course them broncs started, and Scenery fell off. We didn’t stop for
him, ’cause nobody had hold of the lines, and we hit the high spots
until we ran into a hitch-rack at Paradise.
“She’s wan gran’ speech,” declared Froggy. “Wan gran’ cli-max, eh?”
Then what couldn’t climb out fell out. It must ’a’ been midnight. I
fired a couple of shots into the air to sort of announce our arrival,
but there ain’t even a light in the saloon.
Then we went over to the sidewalk; all sat down in a row, and the
orchestra busts into being. Thatcher’s orchestra is some musical bunch,
if you asks me. The old man plays the bull-fiddle; one son plays a
squeeze-organ; the other one plays a mouth-harp and Froggy Deschamps
plays a jew’s-harp.
They’d play a lot better if they’d come to some understanding as to what
tune they’re going to attempt before they start.
It don’t do an orchestra any good when each member plays his favorite
tune regardless of anybody else. “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep” on a
bull-fiddle don’t harmonize with “Sweet Adeline” on a jew’s-harp, with a
mouth-harp playing “Stars and Stripes Forever” and a squeeze-organ
yelping “Turkey in the Straw” between times.
It sort of confuses your ears until you can’t tell right from wrong.
Under them conditions any man what decides against murder is a danged
hypocrit.
* * * * *
When it was over, we gave three cheers. I don’t know what for, unless it
was because the music had ceased. Anyway, we cheered, and then the Rev.
Parsley offers to recite, “Lips that Touch Liquor.”
We debated the question.
“All in favor say ‘aye,’” says Fog-Horn.
“Aye!” yelps everybody.
“Contrary ‘no,’” says Fog-Horn.
“No!” everybody yelps.
“Well,” says Fog-Horn, “under them conditions, Parson, you better go
ahead and keep your mouth shut.”