[Illustration:  “You betcher sweet!”]

“I’ve told Dodey all about you two glad boys,” Skinski went on, “and she’s for you, ain’t you, Dodey?”

“You betcher sweet!” Dodo chimed in, with a hungry glance at the cooked stuff.

“I told her we had a business meet on here, but if she wanted to squeeze in she wouldn’t be in nobody’s way,” Skinski continued.  “Dodey’s an awful clever girl, and she wouldn’t be in this biz eight hours if that gold mine——­”

“Sure, I know!” I interrupted; “possibly Mademoiselle is thirsty—­a little wine, eh?”

“You betcher sweet!” the stout person replied, with a celerity that made Bunch sit up and look about the room to see if anyone suspected him.

“Dodey is always for the suds thing,” Skinski chipped in.  “But never to excess, never to excess.  I never see Dodey lit up but once, and that was in Dayton, Ohio, the night we played to the janitor of the hall and his four children.  When we came to the place where Dodey is blindfolded and does the decimal fractions stunt on the blackboard the janitor’s oldest child fooled Dodey into doing all next week’s lessons in arithmetic and Dodey fretted over it, didn’t you, Dodey?”

“You betcher sweet!” the leading lady replied, with both eyes following the efforts of the waiter, who was opening a bottle of Pommery.

Bunch was beginning to get uneasy and I had a bad attack of fidgets.

“Say, Dodey!” our bright and shining light went on, “I want you to make a fuss over these two young gents, because they are the only nearly silk on the counter.  They’ve put up their good cush to send me on tour without ever dragging me before a Police Justice to swear that I’m on the level, and if ever that gold mine——­”

“Tush!” I interrupted.  “I saw you work, Skinski, and you’re a wonder; that’s good enough for my money.”

“Yes, but you never once put a sleuth over the back trail to throw the spot light on my past life,” Skinski babbled on.  “You’re the first white man that ever took a chance with me without lashing me to the medicine ball, and I’ll make good for you, all right, won’t I, Dodey?”

“You betcher sweet!” she mumbled, with a mouth full of Pommery.

“Say!” said Skinski to me, after we had ordered some breadstuff for the leading lady, “you’re not such a late train with the sleight-of-hand gag yourself, Mr. Manager!”

“Oh!  I’m only a piker at it,” I replied, modestly.  “I can do a few moth-eaten tricks with the cards and I’ve studied out a few of the illusions, enough to know how to do them without breaking an ankle, but I’m not cute enough to be on the stage.”

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!”