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“I’ll settle with you later,” Squirmy shouted at the announcer. “Come on, baby,” he coaxed, grabbing Doris Davis’ left wrist.

“Get another girl,” Ted Delaney said.

“Come on, baby. Doncha want to be an actress?”

“Yes, if I can be the leading man,” Ted Delaney shouted.

“Looks like a case of where the eternal triangle bumps its isosceles angle against the artistic temperament,” the announcer said into the microphone, and the amused crowd laughed.

“The announcer is witty, but that guy Squirmy is dumb,” Studs said to Catherine.

“He’s funny, though. Watch.”

“Let go of her,” Ted challenged.

“You ..”

“I ain’t afraid of you,” Ted Delaney yelled, letting go of Doris Davis and sneering at Squirmy.

“I ain’t afraid of your mother-in-law,” Squirmy said.

“No?”

“No.”

“No!”

“Say, you guys, what’s the idea?” the announcer said like a vaudeville stooge, while the crowd roared.

“He’s jealous because he’s not in my play and Doris is. I didn’t put him in because I couldn’t think up a part dopey enough.”

“I wouldn’t act in his play. He wrote it so he could steal my partner.”

“Well, I don’t care about all that, but listen to me, you mugs, this isn’t a prize ring, it’s a dance marathon.”

“All right, tell him to go dance in a corner with his head in a sack,” Squirmy said.

“Well, are we or aren’t we going to have this play?” the announcer asked.

“Yes, yes, yes, that’s right, clear the floor,” Squirmy shouted, excitedly running around in circles, drawing fresh laughs from the crowd.

“But he can’t have my partner.”

“But she won’t be out of your sight,” the announcer persuaded.

Ted Delaney sulked aside. Squirmy again stationed the girls about the floor. He stepped to the microphone.

“Ladies, gentlemen and others, this is going to be the performance of a play of which I am the one and only author, and also the hero. You didn’t know that I could write a play, did you? Well, I fooled you that time.” He waited while the crowd laughed. “This play by Squirmy Stevens is called The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. I am Paul Revere, and these girls are in houses.”

He walked to one of the benches along the side of the dance floor and fetched a cap and broom from under it. He put the cap on with the peak backward, and stood holding the broom between his legs in the fashion of a small boy playing that the broom was a horse.

“Giddyap. Clop! Clop! Clop! Giddyap!”

He stamped to Katy Jones.

“Rap, Rap, Rap. This is Paul Revere. The British are coming. Is your husband home?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, tell him to shake his tomato out of bed and get out and fight the British.”

The audience laughed.

“I saw this pulled in a vaudeville show once,” Studs said to Catherine, while Squirmy repeated this scene. He lit a cigarette, and was beginning to feel stiff. “Shall we blow?”

“Yes, but wait until this is over.”

“No, my husband isn’t home,” Doris Davis answered in response to Squirmy’s question.

“Well, hurry up and open the door. I want to get in.”

“Funny, even if I did hear it sprung before,” Studs said, laughing.

“I don’t think it’s so funny,” Catherine said.

The crowd laughed and applauded, and a shower of coins poured down onto the dance floor.

V

“This looks funny. He’s asleep on his feet,” Studs laughed.

“Play ball,” Harold Morgan bawled from the center of the floor while the other contestants trudged slowly around and around.

Harold wound up to pitch, swaying as his arm circled over his head, half turned his left foot, rising, and performed the motions for an overhand pitch. Losing his balance, he fell on his face, and Studs roared.

“Don’t laugh, he might be hurt.”

“He ought to be.”

“You’re cruel.”

“No. It’s just funny.”

Harold arose with a dazed expression on his face and a streak of dirt splotching his right cheek. He shook his head, opened his eyes like a man awakening, grinned sheepishly, joined the line which wound around and around and around the floor with a deadening slowness and a steady dragging of feet.

“Gee, it’s late,” Catherine said.

“Twelve-twenty,