Bert asked as he hammered the top on an empty molasses barrel. “Make sure that’s tight. I don’t want hungry critters camping behind the cookhouse.” When he grimaced at the warning she repeated every time a flunkey carried out an empty barrel, she laughed. “I haven’t decided. It’s been quite a while since the jacks have had to entertain themselves on a Saturday night.” He chuckled. “I ’ope it’ll be a party instead of a dirge. The lads miss Nissa’s gals. Sure to be moaning aplenty tonight.” “Is Stretch Helsen’s hand well enough to play the fiddle?” Bert nodded, his beard bouncing with enthusiasm. “Frostbite’s nearly gone. Didn’t lose a joint, either. Says ’e’s going to play tonight, if Old Vic will bring ’is mouth organ.” “If there’s any liquor at the hurrah, Old Vic won’t stay sober long enough to toot more than a few notes.” “Liquor? You know Farley’s rules, Gypsy.” She laughed. “I know how easily those rules will be forgotten if the jacks want to drown their loneliness.”
