Miss Brown—(Pulling herself free.) You run and get the papers. It's almost dark, and there ain't one here yet.
Boy—(At victrola.) Well, I'm goin,' ain't I?
Miss Brown—(Out of breath.) Quit foolin' with that machine, and go get yer papers.
Boy—I won't be three minutes, and then we can try it again.
Miss Brown—I think I've had enough. It ain't no game for an old hen.
(Boy puts on sweater and cap.)
Miss Brown—Is it four slow, and four fast?
Boy—No, that ain't right. Four slow, eight fast, then two turnin' steps. See? (Shows steps, then exits.)
Miss Brown—(Meditatively.) If I get goin' I suppose I'll be dotty, like the rest. This dance craze is certainly worse than hittin' up the booze. They say that Lizzie Smith, the hussy, roped that poor misguided Jones boy into marrying her with her dancing, though heaven knows I never saw nothin' in her grace or beauty. Oh, for ten years of my misspent youth. If I'd only learned the blamed thing before I lost my figure! (Puts record on machine, and dances hesitatingly, counting "one, two, three, four," etc. Bart, much dishevelled rushes into room. He is well dressed, but mussy looking, as if he had slept on a park bench for a night or two, and had not had recent acquaintance with hair or clothes brush. He bumps against the peanuts on the edge of the counter, and scatters them all over the floor.)
Miss Brown—Can't ye see where yer goin'?