“At Jim's!” he cried.
He slipped his arm through hers. Free-hearted as the birds that slumbered in the trees overhead they strolled over to the congenial oyster bar.
So passed The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob Zanin, Pres't.
CHAPTER XXII—A BACHELOR AT LARGE
YOU are to picture Washington Square at the beginning of June. Very early in the morning—to be accurate, eight-fifty. Without the old bachelor apartment building, fresh green trees, air steaming and quivering with radiation and evaporation from warm wet asphalt, rumbling autobusses, endless streams of men and girls hurrying eastward and northward to the day's work or turning into the commercial-looking University building at our right, and hard at it, the inevitable hurdy gurdy; within, seventh floor front, large dim studio, Hy Lowe buttoning his collar and singing lustily—
“I want si-imp-athee,
Si-imp-athee, just symp-ah-thee!”
The collar buttoned, Hy, still roaring, clasped an imaginary partner to his breast and deftly executed the bafflingly simple step of the hesitation waltz over which New York was at the moment, as Hy would put it, dippy. Hy's eyes were heavy and red and decorated with the dark circles of tradition, but his feet moved lightly, blithely. Hy could dance on his own tombstone—and he would dance well.