The crush was growing; Levi and his orchestra had just gone in, and the tuning of the harp and violins came floating down the stairway. Belated Jerry McGlory came striding in, in a light top coat and a glossy silk hat, bowing like a duke to his acquaintances, with Veronica McTurpin, the little widow who kept the millinery store; she was half hidden in her bouquet, and also bowing and smiling, dazzlingly. Mike McCarty followed, more than ever earning his right to the title of Brummel of the ward. He carried his stick and one glove in his right hand; with the other he was barely touching the elbow of Mazie Driscoll, who sold ribbons in a down-town store. Then there was Shaffer the collector for the brewery, and Carrie Lentze, whose father carried on the “Delicatessen” store on the avenue; while behind them came Koskee McGurk and a daughter of O’Mally, who kept the junk shop back of the railroad. “Checks!” cried the man on the stairs jingling his bunch of brass tags. “Put yer wardrobe away, gents; youse can’t go on the floor with yer overcoat or sky-piece.” “Hully gee!” gasped a youth in soiled white kid gloves and a scarlet Ascot tie; “they sticks youse a quarter for wardrobe!” “It’s a t’row down,” echoed a neighbour. “Mame,” to the girl at his side, “it’ll cost two bits to put away yer hat.” “G’way,” said Mame, shocked. “It’s not the right thing, when you’re asked a dollar admission.” The man with the checks was growing impatient. “Don’t hold a meetin’ and make speeches about it,” requested he. “If yer goin’ to cough up, do it.” The bar was on the second floor and had a door leading into the ballroom; groups of men and women were gathered about the tables; waiters were rushing about, the fingers of each hand twisted, in some miraculous fashion, about the handles of a dozen beer glasses; a young man was seated at a piano, singing a popular ballad in a high, throaty voice; some members of the club, their coats stripped off, their sleeves rolled up, were drawing beer, popping corks and passing out dry-looking cigars to a long line of thirsty patrons who stood along the bar. It was ten o’clock. The floor of the ballroom shone with wax; the rows of chairs upon three sides were filled with chattering couples; Levi and his musicians stood ready. All were waiting for Master-of-Ceremonies Murphy, to give the word. “The floor looks great,” remarked that gentleman. He was surrounded by the “floor committee” at the far end of the room, and was running his eye over everything like a general before going into battle. There would be no hitch if he could help it. He hummed a tune and went through a few steps of a “glide waltz” by way of a test. “Like old cheese,” commented he, “jist as slippy as ice.” He looked about him, again. “Where’s McGonagle?” he inquired. “Oh, there youse are,” seeing that gentleman. “All ready?” “Sure,” responded Goose, “it’s up to youse to say when.”