“There’s something going on, over there,” said Curt, as they walked, facing traffic, along the familiar highway.
“The new dance floor—The Hangar—is opening tonight.”
“That will make it easy for us to get in.”
“They may not allow juniors on the floor.”
“But they won’t chase people away! It would be bad for the business!” chuckled Curt. “Every young man can have—must have—at least two in his family, and they might be dancing papa and mama.”
“We can go on and see.”
They did.
The new dance floor, built in an old-looking, metal-covered addition at the side of the main hotel, was crowded. A “jazzy” orchestra, with many toots of its saxophones, howls from clarinets, trills and staccato yaps from its trumpet, put rhythm into the march of many feet.
“Makes me wish I had a girl and had her here and knew how to dance,” laughed Curt.
“What I wish more is—” Al did not get time to express his desire to have Bob along, to advise him in his rather impulsive acts. A man in a dress suit, as the drums rolled in warning to attract attention, advanced to the edge of the band platform and addressed the dancers applauding their last “number.”