"Yah, yah!" he cried, dancing in the net of skirt and waggling his hands
from his ears. "Yah, yah!"
The Granite Jaw smoothed down the outraged rear of his head, eyes
rolling and smile terrible.
"Wow!" he said, making a false feint toward him.
The Baron, shrill with hysteria, plunged into a fold of Miss Hoag's
skirt.
"Don't hurt him, Jastrow. He's so awful little! Don't play rough."
THE BARON (_projecting his face around a fold of skirt_): Worth her
weight in go-uld--go-uld!
"He's always guying me for my saving ways, Jastrow. I tell him I 'ain't
got no little twenty-eight-inch wife out in San Francisco sending me
pin-money. Neither am I the prize little grafter of the world. I tell
him he's the littlest man and the biggest grafter in this show. Come out
of there, you little devil! He thinks because I got a few hundred
dollars laid by I'm a bigger freak than the one I get paid for being."
Jastrow the Granite Jaw flung the crook of his walking-stick against his
hip, leaning into it, the flanges of his nostrils widening a bit, as
if scenting.
"You old mountain-top," he said, screwing at the up-curving mustache,
"who'd have thought you had that pretty a penny saved?"
"I don't look to see myself live and die in the show business, Mr.
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