Daisy had popped out of her seat so quickly that she had bumped her head against the auto-top. Her spirits were at such a pitch of ecstasy that, in her haste to open the fore-door, she jammed the catch. She hauled and wrenched vainly at it, while her companion sat and grinned. "Kind of a combination lock, huh, kid?" he observed, his eyes wrinkling and his shoulders shaking a little--his way of expressing merriment. "Don't talk crazy," Daisy sat up, sucking a finger she had pinched in the mechanism. "Get this thing open!" "Aw, no," the chauffeur was enjoying himself hugely; "let's just set here. We don't want to--hi, there!" For Daisy had squirmed agilely out over the top of the door. In doing this, she had accidentally pushed the catch the right way; so that, as she jumped down from the running-board, the door came docilely open under her hand. "That ain't stylish," remarked the taxi-driver, climbing out. "In this town, we open the door _before_ we get out--not after. Come on, then, friend, and buy me a drink. You said you had a dime, didn't you?" "Where is the dance?" said Daisy, looking about her delightedly as they ascended the broad flight of steps leading into the pavilion. "Nobody ever dances till after they have a nut sundae or something," was the comment of her escort, "I'll race you upstairs, partner." Daisy accepted the gage, and reached the stair-top one step ahead. The two followed a crowd of people through an arched double-doorway, and sat down at a little round table with metal underbody and two companionable, iron-spindled chairs. About them, the whole world, it seemed, was eating ice-cream or drinking colored compounds out of glasses through straws. Through a door at the side of the ice-cream room, Daisy could see couples, on a long perspective of shining floor, whirling by in the conventional embrace of the dance. The thing got into her blood. "Come on," she said, a moment or so later, as she hastily spooned up the last of her "sundae," "I'll give you the first dance, Mr. Man, if you take me out there." "Now you got me," said the chauffeur, with a momentary sheepishness; "I don't dance. I'm a ballplayer." The speaker's tone, as he made this apology, would seem to indicate that the two were accomplishments impossible to find in one and the same person.