I'm sick of entertainers, Danny, Lasca cried. Put on your old band.
Danny gave the signal and the crowd surged over the floor. The dancing was becoming wilder. There were camel-walkers, symptoms of the twa-twa and the skate. A pretty mulatto broke away from her partner and moved her hands convulsively up and down her body in the throes of the itch.
Hug me warmer, baby, Lasca begged.
Love me? Byron queried.
Red hot with love!
What are they playing?
She sang the words:
I said, now daddy, that's one on me.
The clock struck four, protested Byron. That's all right. It'll strike ten before we're through.
I'll never say Amen!
Don't boast. I've worn out better men than you.
Later, Byron's vision became somewhat blurred and his hearing inaccurate. He had a confused sense that all the instruments and human voices in the place were shrieking simultaneously. There was a constant beating of the drum. No longer were the dancers in pairs; apparently they had become quartets. Curious and unaccountable streaks of
