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. Then he got red in the face,
glared at Dodo, and grouched out a "beg pardon!"

"You betcher sweet!" she replied, patting the Pommery.

"Say, John! you know well enough I can't leave New York for more
than two or three days just at this time without having a good
excuse to give Alice," Bunch growled, while Skinski and the
Circassian lady put the knives to the chicken livers _en brochette_.

"How about me!" I snapped back. "I can't go out of town at all,
except in the day-time. I'll have to duck back to Ruraldene after
the show every evening or lose my card in the Happy Husbands'
Union. It's different with you, Bunch; you're not married yet."

"It isn't different at all," Bunch whipsawed me. "And you haven't
any business to expect me to hike over the country with this outfit