"Little saint! How like an angel you do look upon that grave!"
"I may look it, but I feel like the Devil," then, as the lightning by some queer distortion revealed the crazy colony of the dead apparently staggering to and fro, she softened her voice to an awed though raucous stage-whisper,— "Say, Mac, we oughta choose some other set. Supposin' the Devil was walkin' round here, now!" She looked up at him—"maybe you're him yourself, who knows."
And he repeated airily: "Who knows!"
But as the thunder rolled again, a little nearer on the heels of the lightning this time, she cowered against him in spite of the imputed diablerie.
"Oh, Mac," she wailed, "can't you help me out?"
"Well, you might do the Clyde Fitch, Moth and the Flame act. It's highly dramatic—and an ideal rôle for you, you sweet, sorrow-stricken soul."
"For the love of Pete, speak English! Yuh talk like recitation day in the district school.— But what's this fire act?"
"Oh, you rush up to the altar as they pronounce the beautiful and fatal words. Now listen, Desdamona, and get this right. When the sky-pilot in there says feelingly, through his nose,— 'Or forever after hold your peace,' you rise from your seat, and raise your hand, outraged, thus, to high Heaven—and give 'em Hell"
"We're getting that ourselves right now," she shrieked with a crashing bolt and a foretaste of the rain to follow. "Hadn't you better cut out that language?"
