And so the racing procession continued, unabated, in limousine and out sedan, over jeep and under truck, for the better part of a quarter of an hour. And it might have continued longer had it not been for the enterprising spirit of a nearby restauranteer who rolled several kegs of beer onto the sidewalk thereby introducing into the occasion a further distraction. And since spontaneous entertainment is invariably the best, the wandering motorists were not long in realizing the inherent possibilities in this delightful turn of events. Other divertissments, including street dancing and a sidewalk performance by a theatrical troupe from a neighborhood burlesque, were quickly added to the program. Never in the history of the city had the police been confronted by such an ungovernable, pleasure-bent traffic jam. After several futile attempts at laying down the fun-loving uprising, the Chief of Police and his aides finally accepted the inevitable, roped the area off from further traffic, and went in search of a cooling tumbler of beer. The Chief, sitting democratically on the curb, bending his elbow with refreshing regularity, was a little worried, however. He wasn't at all sure how the Mayor was going to look on this incident, and tomorrow there would be the tiresome business of restoring abandoned vehicles to their subdued owners. For his own part, he didn't feel there was any harm in the thing. Here was a group of jaded, work-weary city dwellers having their first delightful taste of real, communal fun in a long time. After his fifth mug of beer, though, the Chief's worries began to vanish. He decided he didn't really give a damn what the Mayor thought. * * * * * Toffee and Marc, however, were not among those participating in these impromptu sidewalk festivities. They had resigned their charter membership in the reveling brotherhood some time before the beer rolled onto the scene. Stylishly garbed in a fur coat and the flaming red jersey, which came nearly to her knees, Toffee burst onto the sidewalk from the door of a glittering convertible, looking a little like a grand dame who had recently suffered some extremely devastating losses in a cloak room crap game. Her face a bit flushed from her recent triumphs, she turned and waited expectantly for Marc. Soon, her vigil was rewarded. Marc, hatless, tieless, his hair hanging loosely in his eyes, staggered through the convertible and moved breathlessly to her side. His eyes were immediately drawn to the garish sweat shirt. "Where on earth did you pick that up?" he asked with distaste. "A charming group of youngsters gave it to me," Toffee told him proudly. "Also, they favored me with several choice bruises." She ran a hand gently over her thigh. "Those kids sure know their way around."