“Checks!” cried the man on the stairs jingling his bunch of brass tags. “Put yer wardrobe away, gents; youse can’t go on the floor with yer overcoat or sky-piece.”
“Hully gee!” gasped a youth in soiled white kid gloves and a scarlet Ascot tie; “they sticks youse a quarter for wardrobe!”
“It’s a t’row down,” echoed a neighbour. “Mame,” to the girl at his side, “it’ll cost two bits to put away yer hat.”
“G’way,” said Mame, shocked. “It’s not the right thing, when you’re asked a dollar admission.”
The man with the checks was growing impatient.
“Don’t hold a meetin’ and make speeches about it,” requested he. “If yer goin’ to cough up, do it.”
The bar was on the second floor and had a door leading into the ballroom; groups of men and women were gathered about the tables; waiters were rushing about, the fingers of each hand twisted, in some miraculous fashion, about the handles of a dozen beer glasses; a young man was seated at a piano, singing a popular ballad in a high, throaty voice; some members of the club, their coats stripped off, their sleeves rolled up, were drawing beer, popping corks and passing out dry-looking cigars to a long line of thirsty patrons who stood along the bar.
It was ten o’clock. The floor of the ballroom shone with wax; the rows of chairs upon three sides were filled with chattering couples; Levi and his musicians stood ready. All were waiting for Master-of-Ceremonies Murphy, to give the word.
“The floor looks great,” remarked that gentleman. He was surrounded by the “floor committee” at the far end of the room, and was running his eye over everything like a general before going into battle. There would be no hitch if he could help it. He hummed a tune and went through a few steps of a “glide waltz” by way of a test.
“Like old cheese,” commented he, “jist as slippy as ice.” He looked about him, again. “Where’s McGonagle?” he inquired. “Oh, there youse are,” seeing that gentleman. “All ready?”