The fluted tin tops of bottles were pried off. Tumblers
clicked. There were the sing of suds and foamy overflowings.
Enter Mr. Ed Kinealy, very brown and tight of suit, very black and
pomaded of hair.
"Oh, Ed!" This from Miss Kinealy between large mouthfuls of sandwich
and somewhat jerkily from being dandled on Mr. Sensenbrenner's knee,
"Where's your friend--where's John Gilly?"
"Oh, Ed!" "Naouw, Eh-ud!" "I'll give you a slap on the wrist." "Naouw,
Ed!" Delivered by those present in a chorus of catcalls and falsetto
impersonations of Miss Kinealy in plaintive vein.
"Now tell me--where is he, Ed? Shut up every body! Where is he, Ed?"
Mr. Kinealy shot a pair of very striped cuffs.
"That guy had sense. One whiff of this roughhouse and he bolted down
again, six steps at a jump. He slipped me so easy I was talking to
myself all the way up-stairs. That guy had sense. Petticoat shush-shush
can't put nothing over on him."
"Aw, Ed!"
CHORUS: Aw, Eh-ud! Aw, Eh-ud! Naouw--
"And him dated for Stella! Honest, it's a rotten shame!" Suddenly Miss
Kinealy flashed to her feet, her glance running quick. "Where is she?
Well, Stella Schump, sitting over there playing chums with yourself!
Honest, your name ought to be Chump! Whatta you think that is--the amen
corner? You're a fine bunch of social entertainers, you fellows are!
Bring her up a chair.
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