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Updated: September 24, 2025
Skinski arose from the sofa and greeted us with his most elaborate bow. Ma'moselle Dodo didn't Society very much. She sat in the middle of the room and sang soft lullabys to a hold-over. "Mr. Jefferson, my nephew," Skinski was saying, "insisted that we should hit the suburban trail and locate your shack. Here's a note from nephew Bunch for you."
Then Uncle Peter coaxed Skinski off in a corner and there they hobnobbed for fifteen minutes while my wife and her aunt and I tried to get cheerful and chatty with "Aunt Flo," but we only succeeded in dragging from her four reluctant "You betcher sweets!"
I'll make it seven thousand each," Skinski chortled. "You two guys put up your last dollar on me, and you didn't know whether I was an ace or a polish. I like you both, for you brought me good luck. Tear up the contract and take $7,000 apiece, is it a go?" "Just as you say, Skinski," I answered nervously. "Of course, if you want the tour to continue, why "
I introduced Skinski to Bunch, and in five minutes all the business details were settled. Skinski needed about $900 to pay for a couple of new illusions which were being built for him, and Bunch was appointed a committee to go down to Sixth Avenue and disburse the funds. "I think we've got the real graft, don't you, Skinski?" I said, after the luncheon had been ordered. "It's a pipe!"
"You betcher sweet!" she mumbled, with a mouth full of Pommery. "Say!" said Skinski to me, after we had ordered some breadstuff for the leading lady, "you're not such a late train with the sleight-of-hand gag yourself, Mr. Manager!" "Oh! I'm only a piker at it," I replied, modestly.
On Wednesday we tried all day to locate Skinski, but he avoided punishment until about four o'clock in the afternoon, when we finally flagged him and began to ask him questions. "I've been busy since Monday," he explained; "brokers and bankers and lawyers, and there are doings. Say! you're two of the dead gamest sports I ever bumped into, and no matter what happens I'm for you for keeps!"
All night long Skinski had me on the stage in a wicker basket, while Uncle Peter jabbed a sword through me and Dodo sat in the front row on the aisle yelling "You betcher sweet!" Thursday broke clear and cloudless.
"I can do a few moth-eaten tricks with the cards and I've studied out a few of the illusions, enough to know how to do them without breaking an ankle, but I'm not cute enough to be on the stage." Skinski laughed, and Dodo looked over another glass of Pommery long enough to say, "You betcher sweet!"
"I'm afraid of the critics." "What critics?" I inquired. "There are only four people in New York city who can write criticisms the rest of the bunch are slush-dealers, and a knock from any one of them is a boost." "I mean Mr. Stale," Bunch put in. "If he were to roast our Skinski it might hurt our business." "It would among the Swedes and Hungarians," I cross-countered. "I'm wise to Mr.
"Well," said Skinski, leading a bevy of French-fried potatoes up to his moustache, "you'll know enough about it after I rehearse you to go on and do the show when we hit a fried-egg burg, where there's only a Mr. and Mrs. Audience to greet our earnest endeavors. Say, boys, you'll get a lot of fricasseed experience trailing with this troupe, believe me!"
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