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“That’s our call,” Livermore said to his wife. “Tell ’em to come a jumpin’, we hain’t even started yet.”

When she had answered the telephone she whispered something to her husband.

“All right,” he said. “I’m sorry to have to call our old friend, Doctor Horne. He’s wanted at onct down the Graham road, at Bob Lombard’s. I guess maybe the baby has swallowed a carpet tack.”

“Thanks, Ras,” came Horne’s voice from outside. “Don’t let me interrupt your speech!”

“Come back if you can, Doc!”

“I think by the way you and Alexander Dent are starting in, you may need me before you get through,” replied Horne, already untying his horse from the fence nearby. When the laughter had again subsided, Livermore continued.

“An’ there’s only two o’ that old brigade left here to-night,” he said, “myself and Alec Dent.”

The musician’s name was greeted by a loud hand-clapping to which he responded by rising from his chair and executing a deep salaam.

“Mind the lids, Alec,” continued Livermore. “I bet Alec ain’t forgot them hoop skirts.”