"She ain't had time to get home yet, ma. They gotta pick up programs and turn in lost articles and all." "Put your arms round me, Jimmie. I keep slippin' and slippin'." "Lemme run for old man Gibbs, ma? Please!" "No, no, Jimmie. Sing like you used to when you was a little kid, Jimmie; I used to laff and laff." "Plunka-plunk-plunk-plunk!" "'Sh-h-h! There's the chimes--you won't never tell me the right time nights, when I ask you, Jimmie." "It ain't late, ma." "'Sh-h-h! What time is that? Listen!" "It's early. Don't you count chimes, ma--it's a sign of snow to count 'em, and Essie's got her thin jacket on. Listen! This is a swell one I know: Plunk! Plunk! Plunk! Plunk!" "'Sh-h-h, Jimmie! One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten--" "See, it ain't late." "'Leven! You can't cheat me; I heard the last one." "'Leven already? Well, whatta you know about that? Them chimes is always ahead of themselves." "Jimmie, my boy, quit playin' with your old ma." "They'll be comin' soon now." "Don't leave me, Jimmie." "Sure, I won't--see!" "Jimmie! Jim-mie--" "Ma! Ma, for Gawd's sakes, open your eyes! Ma darlin'--please--please--" "Sing, Jimmie, like--a banjo." "Plunka-plunk-plunka-plunk!" * * * * * On that last boom of eleven the Stuyvesant Theater swung its doors outward as the portals of a cuckoo clock fly open on the hour, and women in fur-collared, brocaded coats, which wrapped them to the ankles, and carefully curved smiles that Watteau knew so well and Thackeray knew too well, streamed out into the radium-white flare of Broadway, their delicate fingers resting lightly on the tired arms of tired business men, whose faces were like wood-carving and whose wide white shirt-fronts covered their hearts like slabs. Almost before the last limousine door had slammed, and the last tired business man had felt the light compelling pressure of the delicate finger-tips on his arm and turned his tired eyes from the white lights to the whiter lights of cafes and gold-leaf hotels, the interior of the Stuyvesant Theater, warm and perfumed as the interior of a jewel-box, blinked into soft darkness. Small figures, stealthy _espions_ of the night, padded down thick-carpeted aisles flashing their pocket searchlights now here, now there, folding rows of velvet seats against velvet backs, reaching for discarded programs and seat-checks, gathering up the dainty debris of petals fallen from too-blown roses, an occasional webby handkerchief, an odd glove, a ribbon. Then the dull-red eyes above the fire-exits blinked out, the sea of twilight deepened, and the small searchlights flashed brighter and whiter, glow-worms in a pit of night. "For Pete's sakes! Tell Ed to give back them lights; my lamp's burnt out." "Oh, hurry up, Essie! You girls up there in the balcony would kick if you was walkin' a tight rope stretched between the top stories of two Flatiron Buildings."