"But he charges all the others _ten,_" she puts in quick. "He come
down in the price 'cause he was so wrapped up in my _ca_reer."
"Money lastin'?" I ast, and looked at the ole lady.
She give me the high sign.
But Macie answered cheerful. "It's carried me good so far," she says;
"and after t'-night I can stand on my own feet."
"Reckon you won't mind my comin' t' hear you," I says. ('Cause I'd
got a' idear what I was goin' to do.) She said come ahaid. Then I skun
out.
First off, I hunted one of them sun-bonnet keeriges. The feller that
owned it was h'isted 'way up on top, and he had a face like a cured
ham. I tole him who I was goin' t' visit, and ast him what 'd be the
damage if he carted me that far. He said a two spot 'd do the trick, so
I clumb in, he give his broomtail a lick, and we was off in a bunch.
Wal, fer the balance of that day, you can bet I didn't let no grass
sprout under _my_ moccasins. And when I turned up, 'twixt eight and
nine o'clock at that _re_cital, I was a-smilin' like Teddy--and loaded
fer bear!
It was at Long-Hair's shebang. He took me into a big room where they was
about a dozen ladies and gents. But I couldn't hardly see 'em. They was
plenty of gas fixin's, only he had 'em turned 'way down, and little
red parasol-jiggers over 'em. And they was some punk-sticks a-burnin'
in a corner.
If you want t' ast _me,_ I think I hit the funny spot of that bunch
right good and hard. The women kinda giggled at each other, and the men
cocked they eyes at the ceilin' and put they hands to they mouths. But I
wasn't nigh as big a freak to them as they was t' _me!_
"Say!" I says to Macie, 'way low, "where 'd you round up this passel
of what-is-its?"
"Ssh!" she whispers back. "They'll hear you! Most of 'em is big
artists."
"No!" I got turrible solemn. "Have they brought they temper'ments
with 'em?"
She laughed.
"Now, don't devil me, Alec," she says. "But honest, ain't this
Bohemian atmosphere just grand?"
"Wal," I says, sniffin' it, "it reminds _me_ of a Chinee wash-house."
That wasn't the worst of it. The men was tankin' up like the Ole
Harry--right in front of the women! And on beer! What d' you think!
_Beer!_
And the ladies--say! if they was t' wear them kind of dresses out our
way (not more'n a pocket-handkerchief of cloth in the waist, that's
straight), why, they 'd git run in to the cooler _shore_. And, by
thunder! some of 'em was smokin'! _Smokin'!_ And they wasn't a
greaser gal amongst 'em, neither.
"What kind of a place I got in to?" I ast Macie. Gee! I felt turrible.
"Ssh! Long-hair is goin' to play a pyano piece he made up a-a-all by
hisself."
And he done it. First, he goes soft, fingerin' up and down, and movin'
from side t' side like his chair was hot. Then, he took a runnin'
jump at hisself and worked harder. But they wasn't the sign of a
tune--just jiggles. Next, by jingo! it was help you'self to the gravy!
He everlastin'ly lambasted them keys, and knocked the lights plumb
outen that pore instrument.
Jumpin' buffalo! I got t' laughin' so I kinda tipped over again a'
iron thing that was set clost to the wall, and come blamed nigh burnin'
the hand offen me.
When I come to, he was done and down, and a bleached lady, so whitewashed
and painted she was plumb disguised, was settin' afore the pyano. Then
up gits a tall gal, skinny, long neck, forrid like a fish, hair that
hadn't been curried since week a-fore last.
She begun t' sing like a dyin' calf--eyes shut, and makin' faces.
But pretty soon, she took a _new_ holt, and got to goin' uphill and
down, faster 'n Sam Hill; then 'round and 'round, like a dawg after
its tail; then hiccupin'; then--she kinda shook herself--and let out a
last whoppin' beller.
"Macie," I says, "do you have t' herd with this outfit _reg'lar?_
Why, say, _all_ the wild Injuns ain't out West."
She didn't say nothin'. Pore little gal, she was watchin' the door.
And Mister Long-hair? He was wanderin' 'round, lookin' powerful
oneasy. (He'd 'a' better, the scale-haid!) 'Fore long, he goes
outside.
Up gits a short, stumpy feller with a fiddle. All the rest begun t'
holler and clap. Stumpy, he bowed and flopped his ears, and then he went
at that little, ole fiddle of hisn like he'd snatch it bald-haided.
Wal, _that_ was bully!
And now it was Macie they wanted.
"But _he_ ain't here yet," she says.
Long-hair come back just then. "I _re_gret to say, Miss Sewell," he
begun, "that Seenyer" (the impressyroa) "cain't run over t'-night.
But he'll be to my next little _re_cital a month from now."
"A _month,_" repeats Macie. Her face fell a mile, and she got as white
as chalk-rock.
"It's all right," says the Perfessor, rubbin' his hands. "Go ahaid
and sing anyhow."
So she stood up, tremblin' a little. Long-hair sit down to the pyano,
and this was it!
"Oh,
oh,
oh,
sweet
sing bird,
Oh,
oh,
sweet
sing bird,
ety
plump plump----"
plump
plump
Plump
It was a shame. But Macie done her best. When she ended up, they hollered
fer more, and Long-hair like to break hisself in two, bowin'.
She just stood there--like she'd been run to ground. The Perfessor waved
his hand. "The Jew's song from Fowst," he calls out.
I couldn't stand it no longer. I lent towards her. "The Mohawk Vale,"
I says; "_please_ sing The Mohawk Vale."
The crowd giggled. The Perfessor, he started to laugh, too--but ketched
my eye, and coughed.
Macie turned towards him. "A' ole friend; I'd like to," she says. And
sit down to play fer herself.
"Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides
On its fair, windin' way to the sea----"
She helt herself straight, and tried t' stick it out. But she couldn't.
I seen her shake a little, her voice got husky,--and she bent 'way over,
her face in her hands.
"Why, Miss Sewell!" they exclaims, "why, what's the _matter?_"
Then, I gits up. "_Ex_cuse me," I says, "fer puttin' a kibosh on
you' party. But I just want to say that this
Bohemia-artistic-temper'ment fandango stands _ad_journed. Ev'rybody
please vamose--'ceptin' the Perfessor."
My goodness! the pow-wow! But they skedaddled just the same. Then I
turned to Long-hair.
"You' little game is over," I begun. "You don't flimflam this gal
another minute. You don't bum offen her fer another meal. You don't
give her no more of that Patty song-and-dance."
Macie come at me. "Alec! that's insultin'," she says.
The Perfessor starts a-gabblin'.
"Hole you' hosses," I says. "You knowed _all_ the time that the
impressyroa wasn't goin' to show up."
"Miss Sewell, this is _too_ much," says Long-hair, clawin' at his mane.
"They's more a-comin'," I says. "Macie, I was shore somethin' was
skew-gee about this mealy-mouth here, so I had a talk with that Seenyer
this afternoon."
That give Long-hair a jolt. "Impossible!" he yells; "the
secretaries----"
"They _was_ about eight, not to mention some office kids," I says;
"but when I give 'em some straight ole Oklahomaw, I went in O. K."
Long-hair backed off, plumb kaflummuxed.
"The Seenyer said he'd heerd of this gent," I goes on, "and wouldn't
let him learn a _cow_ of hisn to sing. Friend? any little favour? come
here? _Nixey._"