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"Where's Skinski?" I shrieked. "It's nearly 8:30 and he's keeping that mob waiting. Isn't he going to show up!" "You betcher sweet!" she gurgled, and passed on. At 8:25 I rushed into Skinski's dressing room, put on a swift makeup, dove into Skinski's fright wig, hid my face behind a false moustache and goatee, and prepared to sell my life dearly.
"You betcher sweet!" the large lady replied, and with that she grabbed Skinski's arm and they left us flat. Bunch and I loafed around till about an hour before show time, when we put a young chap we had sworn to secrecy on the door, and then we went back on the stage and began to chatter nervously.
Bunch and I were both puzzled by Skinski's peculiar line of talk, but we forgot it and completed all the details for the opening the next night. It was after eight o'clock when I reached home, and Peaches met me at the door with the face lights on full. "Now for the secret!" she chirped, as she dragged me into the diningroom. "Make mine a small one," I admonished; "I've had a busy day."
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