"You betcher sweet!" the large lady replied, and with that she
grabbed Skinski's arm and they left us flat.

Bunch and I loafed around till about an hour before show time, when
we put a young chap we had sworn to secrecy on the door, and then
we went back on the stage and began to chatter nervously.

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.