“Say Francie will they let us dance in a khaki shirt?”
“Why not Dutch it looks all right.”
“I feel kinder fussed about it.”
The jazzband in the restaurant was playing Hindustan. It smelled of chop suey and Chinese sauce. They slipped into a booth. Slickhaired young men and little bobhaired
girls were dancing hugged close. As they sat down they smiled into each other’s eyes.
“Jez I’m hungry.”
“Are you Dutch?”
He pushed forward his knees until they locked with hers. “Gee you’re a good kid,” he said when he had finished his soup. “Honest I’ll get a job this week. And then we’ll get a nice room an get married an everything.”
When they got up to dance they were trembling so they could barely keep time to the music.
“Mister ... no dance without ploper dless ...” said a dapper Chinaman putting his hand on Dutch’s arm.