o’ the farmers’ wives and o’ course the rube spears him with a pitchfork. The state’s attorneys must of been on the jump all the w’ile in them days.
Finally the orchestra was all in their places and an old guy with a beard come out in front o’ them.
“That’s the conductor,” says Bishop.
“He looks like he’d been a long time with the road,” I says.
Then up went the curtain and the thermometer.
The scene’s laid in Little Italy, but you can’t see nothin’ when it starts off because it’s supposed to be just before mornin’. Pretty soon one o’ the three kings comes in with a grouch. He’s old and blind as a bat and he ain’t slept good and he’s sore at the conductor on account o’ the train bein’ a half-hour late, and the conductor’s jealous of him because his beard’s longer, and Archibald, that’s the old king’s name, won’t sing what the orchestra’s playin’, but just snarls and growls, and the orchestra can’t locate what key he’s snarlin’ in, so they don’t get along at all, and finally Flamingo, that’s the old king’s chauffeur, steers him off’n the stage.