He produced a soiled but gay advertising picture. Her ladyship put out her hand. "But you must give us a dance fer it," coaxed Mr. Tomlin, anxious to display the talent of the Tenement. "She's the young 'un as dances at the Op'ry House, the kid is," he explained to his visitors, "they've had her pictoor in the papers, too. Miss Bonkowski, the chorus-lady upstairs, she's got one of them, came out in a Sunday supplement, though I can't say I see the likeness myself."
At this, the two gentlemen, who had seemed decidedly bored than otherwise at the interruption, deigned to bestow a moment of their attention upon the beautiful child in the faded gingham dress.
"She got skeered to the theyater the other day," put in Joey, "an' most cried when they clapped so, an' they promised her anything she wanted if she wouldn't next time——"
"And her didn't cwy," declared the baby, turning a pair of indignantly reproachful eyes upon Joey, "her danced, her didn't cwy."
"Ain't yer goin' to dance fer us now?" coaxed Mr. Tomlin.
"No," said the Angel naughtily, then relenting at sight of her Tomlin's face, "her'll sing, her won't dance."
The pleasant gentleman, thinking, perhaps to please Mr. Tomlin, or maybe to get rid of them the sooner, produced a red ribbon badge. "Ef ze will sing," he said, showing his white teeth as he smiled, "ze shall hav it."
Turning to view this new party, her ladyship treated him to a brief examination, but evidently approving of him, began to sing with no more ado:
"Je suis si l'enfant gaté
Tra la la la, tra la la,
Car je les aime les petits patés.
Et les confitures,
Si vous voulez me les donner
Je suis très bien obligé,
Tra la la la, tra la la,
Tra la la la, tra la la."