Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [386]
IV
“Folks, we now have one final surprise for you by way of entertainment before I call it a night,” the announcer addressed the spectators through the microphone. “Some of the boys have been practicing here on a little playlet called The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, so please give them your kind attention. And oh, yes, the author of this skit is Squirmy Stevens.”
Applauded, Squirmy Stevens bowed, grinned clownishly, and stepped to the microphone.
“I suppose you bozos didn’t know that I wrote plays. Well, I does.”
Studs looked on curiously while Squirmy stationed Katy Jones at a corner in the arena. Facing the same direction as Studs, he scratched and shook his head, studying the unselected girls on the floor. Katy Jones joined them and he drew a laugh returning her to the spot he had placed her.
“Oh,” he loudly exclaimed, pointing to a tall brunette who wore a green sweater.
He led her by the arm toward a corner of the floor below and to the right of Studs. Her partner suddenly grabbed the girl’s free wrist.
“Le’ go,” he called at Squirmy. Squirmy held to the other hand and both pulled, the girl’s head and shoulders bobbing first in one way, then in the other.
“Seems like Ted Delancy of team twenty-two doesn’t trust Doris Davis with Squirmy. I don’t blame you, either, Ted,” the announcer said through the microphone, the crowd licking it all in.
“Look, Squirmy,” someone in the box-seat section called as Ted Delancy led Doris Davis away.
“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 Delancy said.
“Come on, baby. Doncha want to be an actress?”
“Yes, if I can be the leading man,” Ted Delancy 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 Delancy yelled, letting go of Doris Davis and sneering at Squirmy.
“I ain’t afraid of your mother-in-law,” Squirmy said.
“Not?”
“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 Delancy 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! Giddyyap!”
He stamped to Katy Jones.
“Rap, Rap, Rap. This is Paul Revere. The