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With a will, my lads! Tip 'em a livelier one, fifer! Fifer tips 'em a livelier one, and excitement increases. Shake 'em out, my lads! Well done! There you have her! Pretty, pretty! Every rag upon her she can carry, wind right astarn, and ship cutting through the water fifteen knots an hour!
So intent was he on his music that neither he nor the children noticed the serjeant, who with halberd in hand came walking up with the drummer and fifer close behind him. "What have we here?" said the serjeant, eyeing the strange figure before him. "Where did you learn to beat like that, my man?" he went on, laying a heavy hand on the idiot's shoulder.
No critic in bone-rimmed glasses and evening clothes was more scathingly severe than she. She sewed on satin. She mended fine lace. She polished stage jewels. And waited. She knew that one day her patience would be rewarded. And then, at last came the familiar voice over the phone: "Hello, Fifer! McCabe talking." "Well?" "'Splendour' closes Saturday. Haddon says she won't play in this heat.
With right arm eagerly extended in token of being inspired with an answer, and with right leg foremost, the fifer solves the mystery: then recalls both arm and leg, and with bump in ambush awaits the next poser.
Calls at once began for well-known orators at the bar and upon the hustings. "Ewing," "Fifer," "Rowell," "Prince," "Lillard," "Phillips," "Kerrick," "Weldon," were heard from the crowd in rapid succession. It was like "calling spirits from the vasty deep."
The critics had pounced on it with the savagery of their kind and hacked it, limb from limb, leaving its carcass to rot under the pitiless white glare of Broadway. The dress with the Russian sable bands went the way of all Hahn & Lohman tragedies. Josie Fifer received it, if not reverently, still appreciatively.
Oh, it was all planned out like a theater show: Jabez had a full orchestra too, three fiddlers, a guitarist, an' a fifer; an' they began to play solemn music, like they allus do at a wedding. It's a toss-up which is the most touchin', a weddin' or a funeral, a feller's takin' a mighty long shot at either one. The whole crowd was on edge, but myself was strained to the breakin' point.
There, Minha, you can take your choice between the gray mosquito, the hairy mosquito, the white-clawed mosquito, the dwarf mosquito, the trumpeter, the little fifer, the urtiquis, the harlequin, the big black, and the red of the woods; or rather they make take their choice of you for a little repast, and you will come back hardly recognizable!
Not only was she present at the birth of a play; she officiated at its funeral. She carried the keys to the closets that housed the skeletons of the firm. When a play died of inanition, old age, or as was sometimes the case before it was born, it was Josie Fifer who laid out its remains and followed it to the grave. Her notification of its demise would come thus: "Hello, Fifer! "Well?"
McCabe, box under his arm, stood in the doorway. Josie Fifer stood up so suddenly that the dress on her lap fell to the floor. She stepped over it heedlessly, and went toward McCabe, her eyes on the pasteboard box. Behind McCabe stood two more men, likewise box-laden. "Put them down here," said Josie. The men thumped the boxes down on the long table. Josie's fingers were already at the strings.
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