conversation that rose and fell and
broke like the waves on the beach, there was the dull shuffling of
uneasy feet on the ground, the tinkling of glasses, the rattle of
bottles, and over it all the half hysterical laugh of a tipsy woman.
Above the racket a penetrating, quivering voice was raised in song.

Now and again bleary eyes were raised to, the stage, shadowy in a fog
of tobacco smoke. The figure on the boards strutted about, made some
fantastic steps, the face pallid in the streaky light, the mouth scarlet
as a tulip for a moment as it opened wide, the muscles about the lips
wiry and distinct from much practice, the words of the song coming in a
vehement nasal falsetto and in a brogue acquired in the Bowery. The
white face of the man who accompanied the singer on the piano was raised
for a moment in a tired gesture that was also a protest; in the eyes of
the singer as they met those of the accompanist was an expression of
cynical Celtic humour; in the smouldering gaze of the pianist was the
patient, stubborn soul of the Slav. The look between these entertainers,
one from Connacht the other from Poland, was a little act of mutual
commiseration and a mutual expression of contempt for the noisy
descendants of the Lost Tribes who made merry in the place.

A Cockney who had exchanged Houndsditch for the Bowery leered up broadly
at the Celt prancing about the stage. He turned to the companion who sat
drinking with him, a tall, bony half-caste, her black eyes dancing in a
head that quivered from an ague acquired in Illinois.

"'E's all ryght, is Paddy," said the voice from Houndsditch. He pointed
a thumb that was a certificate of villainy in the direction of the
stage.

"Sure," said the coloured lady, whose ancestry rambled back away
Alabama. She looked up at the stage with her bold eyes.

"I know him," she said, thoughtfully. "And I like him," she added
grinning. "We all like him. He's one of the boys."

"Wot price me?" said the Houndsditch man.

"Oh, you're good, too," said the coloured lady. "Blow in another
cocktail, honey." She struck her breast where the uneasy bone showed
through the dusky skin. "I've a fearful thirst right there."

Little puckers gathered about the small, humorous eyes of the Cockney as
he looked at her. "My," he said, "you 'ave got a thirst and a capacity,
Ole Sahara!"

The coloured lady raised the cocktail to her fat lips, and as she did so
there was a sudden racket, men shouting, wo