“No!” I got turrible solemn. “Have they brought they temper’ments with ’em?”
She laughed.
“Now, don’t devil me, Alec,” she says. “But honest, ain’t this Bohemian atmosphere just grand?”
“Wal,” I says, sniffin’ it, “it reminds me of a Chinee wash-house.”
That wasn’t the worst of it. The men was tankin’ up like the Ole Harry–right in front of the women! And on beer! What d’ you think! Beer!
And the ladies–say! if they was t’ wear them kind of dresses out our way (not more’n a pocket-handkerchief of cloth in the waist, that’s straight), why, they ’d git run in to the cooler shore. And, by thunder! some of ’em was smokin’! Smokin’! And they wasn’t a greaser gal amongst ’em, neither.
“What kind of a place I got in to?” I ast Macie. Gee! I felt turrible.
“Ssh! Long-hair is goin’ to play a pyano piece he made up a-a-all by hisself.”
And he done it. First, he goes soft, fingerin’ up and down, and movin’ from side t’ side like his chair was hot. Then, he took a runnin’ jump at hisself and worked harder. But they wasn’t the sign of a tune–just jiggles. Next, by jingo! it was help you’self to the gravy! He everlastin’ly lambasted them keys, and knocked the lights plumb outen that pore instrument.
Jumpin’ buffalo! I got t’ laughin’ so I kinda tipped over again a’ iron thing that was set clost to the wall, and come blamed nigh burnin’ the hand offen me.