and barking and
snarling, but scared to go any closer.

In a minute more the folks begun to arrive; boys first, then girls and
men, and then the women. Marks came trotting up, pounding the donkey
with his umbrella.

"Here, Lion! Here, Tige!" he yells. "Quit it! Let him alone!" Then he
looks at Montague, and his jaw kind of drops.

"Why--why, HANK!" he says.

A tall, lean critter, in a black tail coat and a yaller vest and
lavender pants, comes puffing up. He was the manager, we found out
afterward.

"Have they bit him?" says he. Then he done just the same as Marks;
his mouth opened and his eyes stuck out. "HANK SCHMULTS, by the living
jingo!" says he.

Booth Montague looks at the two of 'em kind of sick and lonesome.
"Hello, Barney! How are you, Sullivan?" he says.

I thought 'twas about time for me to get prominent. I stepped up, and
was just going to say something when somebody cuts in ahead of me.

"Hum!" says a voice, a woman's voice, and tolerable crisp and vinegary.
"Hum! it's you, is it? I've been looking for YOU!"

'Twas Little Eva in the pony cart. Her lovely posy hat was hanging on
the back of her neck, her gold hair had slipped back so's you could see
the black under it, and her beautiful red cheeks was kind of streaky.
She looked some older and likewise mad.

"Hum!" says she, getting out of the cart. "It's you, is it, Hank
Schmults? Well, p'r'aps you'll tell me where you've been for the last
two weeks? What do you mean by running away and leaving your--"

Montague interrupted her. "Hold on, Maggie, hold on!" he begs. "DON'T
make a row here. It's all a mistake; I'll explain it to you all right.
Now, please--"

"Explain!" hollers Eva, kind of curling up her fingers and moving toward
him. "Explain, will you? Why, you miserable, low-down--"

But the manager took hold of her arm. He'd been looking at the crowd,
and I cal'late he saw that here was the chance for the best kind of an
advertisement. He whispered in her ear. Next thing I knew she clasped
her hands together, let out a scream and runs up and grabs the
celebrated British poet round the neck.

"Booth!" says she. "My husband! Saved! Saved!"

And she went all to pieces and cried all over his necktie. And then
Marks trots up the child, and that young one hollers: "Papa! papa!" and
tackles Hank around the legs. And I'm blessed if Montague don't slap his
hand to his forehead, and toss back his curls, and look up at the sky,
and sing out: "M