Still, red mud will work miracles of disfigurement, and Casey was an optimist by nature.
"My wife is trying out a new comedy line," the man observed unemotionally.
"Trouble is it never gets over, out front.

If she ever did get it across the footlights, I could raise the price of admission and get away with it.
How far is it to Rhyolite ?" "Rhyolite?
Twenty or twenty-five miles, mebby." Casey gave him an inquiring look.
"Can we get there in time to paper the town and hire a hall to show in, Mister ?" Casey saw the mud-caked feet move laboriously toward the rear of the car.
"Yes, ma'am, I guess you can.

There ain't any town, though, and it ain't got any hall in it, nor anybody to go to a show." The woman laughed.

"That's like my prayer book.

Well, Jack, you certainly have got a powerful eye, but you've been trying to Svengali this out-fit out of the mud for an hour, and I haven't seen it move an inch, so far.
Let's just try something else." "A prayer outa your prayer book, maybe," her husband retorted, not troubling to move or turn his head.
Casey blinked and looked again.