When yo' out, nuther man in!
The music shivered and broke, cracked and smashed. Jungle land. Hottentots and Bantus swaying under the amber moon. Love, sex, passion . . . hate. Lef? side, right side! Git off dat dime. . . . The dancers swayed from one side to the other like sailors heaving an anchor. Black, green, blue, purple, brown, tan, yellow, white: coloured people!
In the tangle of dancers Byron caught a glimpse of Anatole Longfellow, dancing with . . . Where had he seen that girl? He knew he had seen her before. Yes, he remembered now: at the Winter Palace . . . with Randolph Pettijohn. Frightened eyes. He was her man; she was afraid. No woman afraid of me. Made a fool out of me. Hate her! Hate 'em all! . . . Doan never git One woman on yo' min' . . . Byron filled his glass.
The Creeper and his girl sat down in the two deserted places at Byron's table.
'Toly, you sho' is one bardacious scroncher.
You's goin' git scronched.
Lak mine,
Nobody in town can bake a sweet jelly-roll so fine,
So fine,
a new entertainer boasted through a megaphone.
