By late afternoon, the living room had been made ready for the dance. Belle, Ethel and Nell had, under the direction of Mrs. Manley, decorated the apartment in truly festive style. Brightly colored streamers of silk hung from the ceiling, and Roy or Teddy did not even guess they were Belle’s old hair-ribbons tied together. Flowers were placed in every available spot, chairs were arranged along the walls, and in one corner a platform of boards was erected for the orchestra, which was to consist of Nick Looker, with his mouth-organ, Sing Lung, violinist extraordinary, and Jim Casey, “Maestro of the accordion.” Teddy’s offer to be a trap-drummer, with tin pans for drums, was declined with thanks. An hour before supper Nell and Belle Ada were in Belle’s room, trying to decide which of Belle’s light summer dresses she was to wear. Teddy, Roy, and Ethel were walking in the direction of the mess-house, to see if the orchestra was prepared to “execute” the dance numbers. As the three neared the kitchen, a determined voice reached their ears. Teddy held up his hand and they listened. “I tell you that ain’t the proper way!” Nick was declaring loudly. “Now watch me, you iggernant punchers.” Teddy, Roy, and Ethel stole nearer and peeped through the door. What they saw caused Ethel to clap her hand to her mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. The cowboys were standing about in attitudes of rapt attention. In the center was Sing Lung, a tablecloth around his waist, an old, faded, blue-cloth hat on his head, and a simpering grin on his face. The interpretation was obvious. He was made up to resemble a girl! Toward him walked Nick Looker, his right hand resting on his chest, his head bent deferentially. Striding to within a pace of the cook, Nick bowed low. “I begs you to excuse the liberty,” he said with a precious accent, “but may I have the honor of this jig?” “_Dance_, not _jig_, you Indian!” Rad Sell roared. “A gentleman don’t never ask a lady to _jig_!” Nick turned a haughty look upon the interrupter. “Who’s doin’ this askin’; you or me?” he demanded coldly. “All right! All right! Go ahead in yore own dumb way! You’ll learn!” “I’m tryin’ to learn you birds!” Nick exclaimed. “I know how! Now look! You goes up to Norine an’--I mean you goes up to the lady an’ bows. Then you says: ‘Pardon me fer takin’ the liberty, ma’am, but mahvis dance?’” “What? What was that last?” “Mahvis dance! Didn’t you ever hear that, you iggernant bronco-busters? That’s what you say when you want to waltz--you say ‘mahvis dance, please’?” “But what’s it _mean_?” Nat Raymond demanded. “I don’t know what it means,” Nick answered. “But you _gotta_ say it. All the tony gents do. ‘Mahvis dance?’ Like that.” “What on earth can he mean?” Ethel asked in a whisper of the boys. “I never heard anything like it in my life! And will you look at Sing Lung! Honestly, I--” “Sh-h-h!” Teddy warned, with a grin. “This is good! Listen! Maybe we’ll find out what he means later.”