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!