Simpson replied, with meaning, “D’ yuh mind the time yuh handed me over to Pikey Moffat? Think about it.” He got up from the table. “Think about it,” he said as he went out. His wife brushed the crumbs from the lap of her flowered satin evening gown, and followed him. The beauties in the bath robes trailed off to their dressing-room. The boy began to gather up the beer mugs. He looked commiseratingly at “Shine.” “Wish yuh had _my_ job,” he said. “I dreamt I was a music box las’ night, an’ they wound me up by the arm. I got a cramp in ’t this mornin’, an’ he says he’ll dock me ten cents fer slowin’ down to rub it.” “Shine” did not speak. The boy looked after the Queens of the Harem. “Wish I was a woman,” he said, “an’ didn’t have to do nuthin’ but look picturesquew.” He sighed. He pinched off the lighted end of his cigarette, put the butt in his pocket, and went out, grumbling, with the beer mugs. “Shine” remained hunched over the table, staring at nothing and slowly gathering venom. When he went out to the platform, he was full of it, bitter with it, almost indeed sober and clear-headed with it. XXI “Ladies an’ gen’leman,” Simpson announced, “I’m from Texas. I’m from Texas where they valyoo friendship more _than_ money. An’ what I’m goin’ to tell yuh is between _man an’ man_.” He straightened up with dignity. “I’m the _pro_-prietor o’ this show. I’m monarch of all I survey.” He waved his hand from the display of his wife’s shoulders in the ticket office to the oil canvases of the Indian nautch girls, the skeleton man, the “Wizard of the West,” the “Demon Diavolo” eating fire, and the “Modern Samson” lifting ton weights--to the three Queens of the Harem, sitting on the platform with “Shine,” under the flare of a gasoline “torch”--to the curtained door that led into the “Alhambra of Mystic Marvels and Persian Beauty Show.” He screamed with a sudden inconsequent passion: “I don’t hire men to come out here an’ lie to yuh! No! I’m tryin’ to make an hones’ livin’ fer myself an’ the fines’ comp’ny o’ _per_formers that ever appeared together under one management on Coney Island!” He wiped his forehead. He lowered his voice. “An’ to tell youse the truth, boys, it’s the toughest proposition I ever went up against.” It was a Saturday night, and the Island walks were crowded. “Shine” was looking down on a throng of white faces and eyes that shone in the light. They laughed. “I know!” Simpson cried. “Yuh’ve been faked. Yuh’ve been payin’ good money to see a lot o’ ham-fatters an’ chair-warmers--a lot o’ stiffs that couldn’t get hired fer a supper-show up in the city. Ain’t that right?” One of his “boosters” in the back of the crowd shouted, “That’s what’s the matter!”