The woman was passing through the barroom and, winking at the bartender, opened the door and stepped to the street. She smiled as she caught sight of the limping stranger coming toward her. He might have found money, but she was certain he had found something else and in generous quantities. He removed his sombrero with an exaggerated sweep of his hand and hastened to meet her, walking with the conscious erectness of a man whose feet are the last part of him to succumb. "Hullo, Sugar," he grinned. "I found some, a’right. Now we ’ll have some music. Come long." "There ain’t no hurry," she answered. "We ’ll take a little walk first." "No, we won’t. We ’ll have some music an’ somethin’ to drink. If you won’t make th’ music, I will; or shoot up th’ machine. Come ’long, Sugar," he leered, pushing open the door with a resounding slam. He nodded to the bartender and apologized. "No harm meant, Friend. It sorta slipped; jus’ slipped, tha’s all. Th’ young lady an’ me is goin’ to have some music. What? All right for you, Sugar! Then I’ll make it myself," and he paraded stiffly toward the inner door. The bartender leaned suddenly forward. "Keep out of there! You ’ll bust that pianner!" The puncher stopped with a jerk, swung ponderously on his heel and leveled a forefinger at the dispenser of drinks. "I won’t," he said. "An’ if I do, I ’ll pay for it. Come on, Sugar—le’s play th’ old thing, jus’ for spite." Grasping her arm he gently but firmly escorted her into the dance hall and seated her at the piano. As he straightened up he noticed the card players and, bowing low to her, turned and addressed them. "Gents," he announced, bowing again, "we are goin’ to have a li’l music an’ we hopes you won’t objec’. Not that we gives a d—n, but we jus’ hopes you won’t." He laughed loudly at his joke and leaned against the piano. "Let ’er go," he cried, beating time. "Allaman lef an’ ladies change! Swing yore partner’s gal—I mean, swing some other gal: but what’s th’ difference? All join han’s an’ hop to th’ middle—nope! It’s all han’s roun’ an’ swing ’em again. But it don’t make no difference, does it, Lulu?" He whooped loudly and marched across the room, executed a few fancy steps and marched back again. As he passed the card table Sammy threw down his hand and arose with a curse. The marcher stopped, fiddled a bit with his feet until obtaining his balance, and then regarded the youth quizzically. "S’matter, Sonny?" he inquired. Sammy scowled, slowly recognized the owner of the imported cigars and shook his head. "Big han’s, but not big enough; an’ I lost my pile." Staggering to the piano he plumped down on a chair near it and watched the rippling fingers of the player in drunken interest.