"
To a great flare of the Negroid music, the row of twenty-four suddenly
turned turtle, and prone on a strip of rug, heads to audience and faces
to ceiling, twenty-four pairs of legs, ankleted in bells, kicked up a
syncopated melody. From a Niagara of lace, insteps quivered an arpeggio.
A chromatic scale bounced off a row of rapidly pointing toes. The third
from the end, seized with sudden chill, quivered into grace notes,
small pink feet kicking violently to the chandelier.
Men red with laughter pounded their plates. The rhythmic convulsion
passed down the prostrate line, forty-eight little feet twinkled a grand
finale, and the curtains swung, then opened, remaining so.
The line of twenty-four danced down and across the wide hair-line that
separates life and stage, butterflies sipping from table to table. The
cabaret was done. Lights resumed, and the business of food and drink.
Mr. Loeb flung out an arm, pulling awry a carefully averted pink sash.
"Say, little Jingle Bells, you and your friend!"
"Cut it out, Herm! If we want to be down on Cedar Street by--"
"What's your hurry, little one?"
"It ain't mine; it belongs to the management."
"Won't you join us?"
"Herm, that job-lot of sweaters--"
"Oh, come on, little Jingle Bells!"
"My friend, too?"
"Sure your friend.
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