Men, sheepish of their smiles but with the small heels overhead
clanging like castanets into their spirits, dared to glance up.
"Gad, Herman! What'll they think up next? Whatta you know about
that--all those little devils dancing right over our heads!"
"There she is!"
"Who?"
"The little one in the boy's black-satin suit, with the black curls
bobbing!"
"Watch out, Herm! You'll die of crick in the neck."
"I don't see any blinkers on you!"
"Hey, old man! Your mouth's open."
"I know. I opened it," said Mr. Loeb, his head back and eyes that were
suddenly bold staring up at the twinkling aisle.
At a table adjoining, a man reached up, flecking one of the tiny
black-satin feet with a whirl of his napkin.
Then Mr. Herman Loeb, of St. Louis, committed an act of spontaneous
combustion. When came the turn of the black satin and the bobbing curls
to bend over the rail directly above him, he flung wide his arms,
overturning a wine bottle.
"Jump!" he cried.
Beneath the short, black curls a mouth shaped like a bud reluctant to
open, blew him a kiss. Then came a cue of music like an avalanche, and
quicker than Harlequin's wink the aisle was clean.
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