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A liberal application of shoe paste furnished the unfortunate victim with a startling pair of jet-black eyebrows, nearly an inch in depth. Appalled at what he saw, Moses drew from his pocket a grimy handkerchief. Dampening one corner of it in his mouth, the most expeditious thing to do under the circumstances, he carefully wiped around the outside of these funereal bands, reducing them slightly in size but also straightening their edges. “Let’s all go to the parlor, Mar, and hev some music. It isn’t every evenin’ we hev company,” said Mr. Wopp. “She’s a reglar show-lady,” defended Moses. This was hardly a strategic move from Moses, as he had just asserted they had been doing nothing. “Let me go, please!” he pleaded. “There’s a little girl, our refugee, over there, fainted, I think, perhaps—dead.”.