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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?
That's the living truth," says he, "and the only excuse I can make is that 'tain't my fault. He's my cousin, all right, and his name's Hank Schmults, but the sooner you box that fact up in your forgetory, the smoother 'twill be for yours drearily, Peter T. Brown. He's to be Mr.
"Then what did you want to get him for?" he says. "We didn't," says Jonadab. "We wanted to get rid of him. We don't want to see him no more." You could tell that the manager was puzzled, but he laughed. "All right," says he. "If I know anything about Maggie that's Mrs. Schmults he won't get loose ag'in." We only saw Montague to talk to but once that day.
"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.
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