Luck pulled a solacing cigar from an inner pocket and licked down the roughened outer leaves, and scowled thoughtfully across the studio yard.

The camera man was figuring up footage or something, and his assistant was hurrying to get the tripod folded and put away.

There was a new briskness in the movements of every one save Luck himself, after he spoke that last sentence through the megaphone.
The Happy Family--or that part of it which had thrown away pitchforks and taken to the pictures--came clanking across the stage toward Luck.

You would never have known the Happy Family, unless it were the Native Son who wore his usual regalia in exaggerated form.

The Happy Family had wide, flapping chaps that made them drag their feet they were so heavy and so long, and great Mexican spurs whose rowels dug tiny trenches in the ground when they walked.