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and number 413 hops in his place. Well, you know who 68 is don't vou ? Try to guess while I tell you more.
Here's the dock. And just look at those boys. And all this dainty flutter and twitter and holding up of cards. Numbers dwindle. The big blue eyes of Connie-Boy grow rounder and rounder, and still rounder.
The animals come in two by tw^o, as of old, and the busy parsons mop their brows. Tobis with a tin-can orchestra makes sentimental noises. Rings strung on spikes grow fewer. At the end there's Connie-Boy, and there's the last bride, one ahead, already married off ! And what's to be done ?
The fat man in the bar does surely smell. So the lads, in celebrating mood, wash him at least to the waist with soda syphons. Laughter, dwindling to Connie's laughter. They stare at him uneasily. He is good at hysterics. But they have a bereft and clinical flavour amid the other kind of hysteria that is mounting in the audience.
When he is told that he was originally 68, and that 68 has the woman that was rightfuly his, his eye says trouble ahead, and 68 is Clifford ^IcLaglen. And the woman is the Companionate, which is perhaps one reason why Clifford is in such a hurry to go off after gold, bearing a camel who has the microphone to himself for the whole of five minutes.
The jealous Connie breaks into the Companionate's room, and is found there, and there's your reason for the Big Scene.
Night and the shadows falling, and the camera now fondly believing in mass-rhythm from choice rather than understanding, the men turn out, and the cry goes forth : " Lynch the . . . (when you say that, smile!) " and Connie is frog
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