Squimp, who was as silent as if clams had suddenly taken place. Finding, however, that she could ride the harp safely, he set Angie right to work jazzing with his orchestra of Manicured Mozambique Monkeys.
Angie’s luck at last had turned. But don’t get excited about it—that’s not always a good sign. Milk often turns, too, and nobody gives three cheers about it.
But it was wonderful, when she began to play, how sure-footed she was! Her harp seemed half human, half divine. As for Angie, she seemed half human, half monkey. How merrily she leaped from string to string! How her toes twinkled, as she ran from chord to chord, and vice versâ. Soon she was the pedicure of all eyes. For Angela, though only faintly pretty, had a beautiful sole. True, it was somewhat blistered; but, at such a time even fallen arches are beautiful. Look at the Temple of Diocletian, for instance.
What cared Angie, then, though she had worn the skin off eleven or twelve toes! Had not men acclaimed her daring feet? Why, even the Mozambique Monkeys were telling their tails of her skill!
