spent time at your uncle’s
place, I mean?”
“Yes. Yes, it was Mr. Huxtable.” A sinking
sensation crept into Amy’s breast; a feeling of premonition, of
dire anticipation. If that man making all the fuss was Horace
Huxtable—
“That’s him, all right,” Charlie said
cheerfully, confirming Amy’s worst fears. “Drunk as a skunk and
roarin’ something comical.”
Amy, speechless, pressed a hand to her bosom.
She’d die. She’d absolutely die if she had to put up with
Horace Huxtable after he’d been drinking. The man was insufferable
sober, for heaven’s sake.
“Shooty tooty, he’s raisin’ hell for sure. I
think Martin needs a hand.” Charlie took off at a lope.
Amy watched him go with a plummeting
heart.
* * *
There was nothing the least bit comical about
this situation as far as Martin Tafft was concerned.
“For God’s sake, Huxtable, they only let you
loose yesterday.” He tried to take Huxtable’s arm, but the actor
flung Martin’s hand away.
“Unhand me, vassal,” Huxtable slurred as if
he was king of the world and Martin a lowly servant.
“For the love of Mike,” Martin muttered. “Let
me get you put away someplace. You’ve got to get sobered up before
tomorrow. We rehearse in the morning.”
“I,” Huxtable said, swinging his arms about
and narrowly avoiding collisions with several spectators, “am a
profesh—profesh—a seasoned performer.”
“You’re seasoned, all right. Pickled is more
like it.”
Several people snickered, and Huxtable
attempted to draw himself up majestically. He succeeded in
overbalancing himself and staggering backwards, bumping into a
table and a man who’d been watching.
About at his wit’s end, Martin was ecstatic
when Charlie showed up.
“Need some help, Martin?” the big cowboy
asked as if the problem were nothing to him.
“I sure do. Thanks, Charlie. We’ve got to get
him out of here and to his tent. We’ll have to dry him out
somehow.”
“Tie him up,” Charlie suggested. “That’s what
we had to do with Pete Thatcher at the ranch. He’d be okay tied up.
Loose, he was hell on fire.”
Although so drastic a measure hadn’t occurred
to Martin, the circumstances were such that he grabbed at it
instantly. “Good idea.”
Charlie seemed to survey the wobbly actor
with a judicious eye for a moment. Then he said, “Reckon I’ll catch
him up top, Martin. I’ve had more practice rassling wild animals
than you have, I ‘spect.”
In spite of the catastrophic entrance of
Horace Huxtable onto the scene, stinking drunk in the face of dire
warnings from Phineas Lovejoy and Martin himself, Charlie’s
easygoing, practical assessment of the task ahead of them tickled
Martin. He approved wholeheartedly. “Thanks, Charlie.”
Charlie seemed to catch sight of Amy Wilkes a
moment after Martin himself did. He hitched himself up for a
second, then rubbed his hands together and said, “Aw, hell, Martin.
‘Tain’t nothin’.”
Good God, the man was deliberately making
himself sound like an oaf in front of Miss Wilkes! Martin had no
time to contemplate this weird phenomenon before Charlie, who
really did look as if he’d performed this operation more than once
in his life, slipped behind Huxtable and snaked his arms around
him, pinning the actor’s arms to his sides and immobilizing him.
Huxtable spluttered for a second, then bellowed obscenely.
Spectators flinched from the noise and began to laugh. Amy blushed
and pressed a hand to her cheek.
“Fetch up his legs, Martin. Maybe somebody
will have to help, since he’s got tow of ‘em—although they ain’t
workin’ too good at the moment.”
This was true. However, Huxtable was still
able to kick, and Martin was glad to see a man—he thought it was
the chief cameraman, but couldn’t take the time to make sure—step
out from the crowd. “I’ll get the left leg, Tafft. You take the
right.”
“Thanks.” Martin waited until Huxtable had
lifted his right knee and grabbed
place, I mean?”
“Yes. Yes, it was Mr. Huxtable.” A sinking
sensation crept into Amy’s breast; a feeling of premonition, of
dire anticipation. If that man making all the fuss was Horace
Huxtable—
“That’s him, all right,” Charlie said
cheerfully, confirming Amy’s worst fears. “Drunk as a skunk and
roarin’ something comical.”
Amy, speechless, pressed a hand to her bosom.
She’d die. She’d absolutely die if she had to put up with
Horace Huxtable after he’d been drinking. The man was insufferable
sober, for heaven’s sake.
“Shooty tooty, he’s raisin’ hell for sure. I
think Martin needs a hand.” Charlie took off at a lope.
Amy watched him go with a plummeting
heart.
* * *
There was nothing the least bit comical about
this situation as far as Martin Tafft was concerned.
“For God’s sake, Huxtable, they only let you
loose yesterday.” He tried to take Huxtable’s arm, but the actor
flung Martin’s hand away.
“Unhand me, vassal,” Huxtable slurred as if
he was king of the world and Martin a lowly servant.
“For the love of Mike,” Martin muttered. “Let
me get you put away someplace. You’ve got to get sobered up before
tomorrow. We rehearse in the morning.”
“I,” Huxtable said, swinging his arms about
and narrowly avoiding collisions with several spectators, “am a
profesh—profesh—a seasoned performer.”
“You’re seasoned, all right. Pickled is more
like it.”
Several people snickered, and Huxtable
attempted to draw himself up majestically. He succeeded in
overbalancing himself and staggering backwards, bumping into a
table and a man who’d been watching.
About at his wit’s end, Martin was ecstatic
when Charlie showed up.
“Need some help, Martin?” the big cowboy
asked as if the problem were nothing to him.
“I sure do. Thanks, Charlie. We’ve got to get
him out of here and to his tent. We’ll have to dry him out
somehow.”
“Tie him up,” Charlie suggested. “That’s what
we had to do with Pete Thatcher at the ranch. He’d be okay tied up.
Loose, he was hell on fire.”
Although so drastic a measure hadn’t occurred
to Martin, the circumstances were such that he grabbed at it
instantly. “Good idea.”
Charlie seemed to survey the wobbly actor
with a judicious eye for a moment. Then he said, “Reckon I’ll catch
him up top, Martin. I’ve had more practice rassling wild animals
than you have, I ‘spect.”
In spite of the catastrophic entrance of
Horace Huxtable onto the scene, stinking drunk in the face of dire
warnings from Phineas Lovejoy and Martin himself, Charlie’s
easygoing, practical assessment of the task ahead of them tickled
Martin. He approved wholeheartedly. “Thanks, Charlie.”
Charlie seemed to catch sight of Amy Wilkes a
moment after Martin himself did. He hitched himself up for a
second, then rubbed his hands together and said, “Aw, hell, Martin.
‘Tain’t nothin’.”
Good God, the man was deliberately making
himself sound like an oaf in front of Miss Wilkes! Martin had no
time to contemplate this weird phenomenon before Charlie, who
really did look as if he’d performed this operation more than once
in his life, slipped behind Huxtable and snaked his arms around
him, pinning the actor’s arms to his sides and immobilizing him.
Huxtable spluttered for a second, then bellowed obscenely.
Spectators flinched from the noise and began to laugh. Amy blushed
and pressed a hand to her cheek.
“Fetch up his legs, Martin. Maybe somebody
will have to help, since he’s got tow of ‘em—although they ain’t
workin’ too good at the moment.”
This was true. However, Huxtable was still
able to kick, and Martin was glad to see a man—he thought it was
the chief cameraman, but couldn’t take the time to make sure—step
out from the crowd. “I’ll get the left leg, Tafft. You take the
right.”
“Thanks.” Martin waited until Huxtable had
lifted his right knee and grabbed
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