The Maennerchor Ball never begins until after midnight. No man who ever attended one ever maintained the contrary. Paradoxical as it may appear, the average patron of those balls does not go there to dance, nor even to look upon the dance floor, however brilliant the spectacle which may there be set before his eyes. Save to a few people the ball is misnamed. It is a ball, of course; but not primarily. Gently speaking, it is a rout. The police are there, but they are not offensively in evidence. They have their orders, and would loyally execute them: but as things happen they are not often called upon to exercise their authority, and in the morning, when heads are clear and the liver begins to assert its right to work, if it can, even the antagonists of the night before are glad that they talked and did not fight.
But this year the supper room, the scene of the highest revelry always, was also the scene of a fight a few moments after the doors were thrown open. There had been too much wine, of course - not all bought in the form of supper tickets, but gathered in that wild quest for reasons why a man who wanted to be good should not go home on Maennerchor Ball night. A married man, of course, is meant. The scenes on the stage shift rapidly, but not quite as rapidly as at the Maennerchor Ball. There are not so many shifters. But they tell me that one blow was struck - what a fool a man is to imagine that he can make his, way in this world on his muscle, prizefighters barred—and the other man was willing to strike, too. But.the management would not have it. Not the management of the Young Maennerchor. They don't happen to be that kind of people. 0nce a year they give their ball. They are always glad to have their friends attend that function, but would infinitely prefer to have them stay at home to coming there and making trouble. Therefore no fights. In two minutes the combatants in Tuesday night's fracas were hustled out, and the incident was closed. It never should have started.
She was a blonde, and her rivals affirmed that she bleached her hair. Maybe she did. It looked like straw to me. But perhaps I don't know. At any rate he was drinking, and, if surface indications count for anything, he belonged to her. A case of joint ownership, no doubt. At the table at which they sat was a friend of both who had once alluded to the "bleached blonde." No reference to this allusion was made in the conversation, which led up to the incident, but "all of a sudden" as they say on the stage, he walked up to the lady; with the conscious air of proprietorship and began to take the hairpins out of her hair. There was no noise or disturbance of any kind. The people at the next table hadn't the faintest notion of what was going on. Then, when her golden hair fell, in shining ringlets down her back, he turned savagely, to the man who once had made.an allusion to the "bleached blonde" and said: "There, confound you, say it now." The other man had been drinking himself - what's the trouble with the Prohibitionists, anyhow? —and for an.instant did not know exactly what the other meant. Then, recollecting himself, he said: "Why, if you want me to say whether or not I think that the lady bleaches her hair, I will frankly say that I think she does.'' The argument ended there with a word which cannot be embodied in this report.
It was down in the basement where Gambrinus is king and hurrah for the next that dies! When they don't drink their beer there they have a trick of emptying their glasses on the floor, which enables them to go home as sober as if they had said they would not take another, but in the meantime staid old fellows like myself are apt to get wet feet. And there are others, all the time. One of the others this time was a girl in red tights. It dawned on her in a minute. With a scream she exclaimed: "Oh, my feet are getting wet," and deliberately took off her red slippers and sat with her feet dangling in the beer plant on the floor. That was to dry her feet.
They said—did you ever notice how many things they said?-—that he was old enough to know better, and he looked the part. But he was twenty-one exactly twenty-two years ago, and has a clear right to think for himself. If he can, of course. That's different. And still, in that gown, what could the poor man do? It was a candid sort of gown itself. Not for an instant did it make the slightest pretense of revealing or concealing its wearer's charms. And she had charms, too. About three inches below her shoulder there was something like a band about her arm which may have been meant to hold up the waist, but if that was the purpose, it signally failed in its accomplishment. She said herself that she had invested the savings of six months in the gown, and there was no reason to question her word. And it wasn't a case of "what fools these mortals be," either! She has already covered the cost of the gown twenty times over in the form of diamonds from the man who was old enough to know.
He thought she could not kick, and when the lights were low he held up his shining silk hat and gave her a chance. There was no waste of time on her part. She had been trained in that business. In a second there was the rustle of some lingerie, the gleam of dark hose, a report which might have been mistaken for the explosion of a cannon, and the silk hat sailed gracefully but none the less swiftly to the ceiling and then landed in the mingled beer and water on the floor. Down stairs again, There's fun there, unless you have a bad disposition. Then it's better to go home. A dress suit doesn't look well in a police court at 7 A.M.
Within less than an hour something like twenty-six empty champagne battles stood on their table. There was nothing cheap, about that crowd. The women were quietly clad, but the men had diamonds. to pawn or burn. For more than two hours the fairest of the fair had been stopping at their table—why shouldn't they, as long as the wine went round?—dropping a kiss here, and an invitation to the next pink tea there, until, for the truth must sometimes be told, everybody at the table, from the millionaire broker to the poorest fed man at the board, manfully owned up to having as much as he really cared to handle. Then a momentary hush fell upon the assemblage. Perhaps some of them were thinking of the homes to which they should have gone, and others of the homes they had lost. Anyhow, there was a pause. Then a beautiful- girl, she could not have been more than eighteen, shot up, and, grabbing a bottle of wine that had just been opened, gave this toast: "Boys, I'm drunk and I'm glad of it. Have a drink with me." She went out before the lights did, but that's none of our business.
It was only an orange and a lady, with a very low cut gown, and a bad man with too much wine. Bad men get that way sometimes, they say, but his aim was good, and, for a moment or two after the orange struck the dividing line between the corsage and, you know the rest, it looked as if the other fellow was very tired and did not realize what had happened, and the managers again were on the lookout to prevent trouble. there would be something better than anything that Sharkey and Fitzsimmons could do. Two causes conspired to avert that calamity. The other fellow was very tired and did not realize what had happened, and the managers again were on the lookout to prevent trouble.
They looked like Romeo and Juliet, but, for some cause or another, had not brought their balcony with them. It was a pity. The moonlight shone from their very eyes. There was the glimmer of the star's soft rays in their champagne-colored cheeks. She had just kissed him in full view of the audience, and then her glance fell upon somebody else. "Excuse me a moment," she exclaimed, calmly, and just as calmly walked over to the party of the third part. At 1 o'clock she was eating supper at the Walton with number three, and the other fellow was still holding her cloak. He hasn't got even that - now.
A house is not necessarily empty because you think it is. For particulars consult the stars. Ten minutes after the lights on the dancing floor had been turned out two mites of humanity - not any of them count for much in the sum total of human existence, were snugly ensconced behind the palms that stood on the rear of the stage. Her notes we're as cooing as those of the dove and her request was just as modest. "This is Shrove Tuesday," she said, with a half smile. "Let's go around to Dennett's for ham and eggs."
It was very wet down in the basement, where the foaming malt was dispensed free of charge. Groups of Indians, Filipino girls, Hungarian peasants, et cetera, and scores of the jeunesse dore, with their sweethearts, imparted a decidedly risque effect. It really didn't matter whether your name was Jones or Brown. Identities were lost in the scene of revelry, and the engraved cards were as much out of place as a blizzard in the tropics. Sometimes tho girls were being Hobsonized by some other fellows. But that didn't appear to create a sensation. It was a case of living in glass houses for most of the crowd. Off from the basement were a half-dozen recesses. They were exceedingly well patronized. With a table in the centre for the foaming glasses and a marked absence of light, the revelers made merry. Frequently from the recesses came a shower of garters, some silver-buckled, for which there would be a scramble. Then it was a drink for the fair owner of the stolen article, with the song:
"Fairest maiden, thou hast a slender, waist.
"A slender waist is thine love, and the arm that clasps is mine, love."
Back of the scenery was a favorite place for the thirsty dancers. Leading a small party, on one occasion, was an out-of-town clergyman whose vocation, with a single exception, was unknown to the merry crowd. He had the flask, and it was soon emptied to the time of
"Come, every jolly good fellow And fill up your glass,"
with the parson leading in a rich basso voice. But that was not the only trip. There were many of them. Each occasion the dominie was popular enough to flirt with a different girl. It was long after 3 o'clock when the last carriage rolled away from the frowning fortress on Broad street. It is curious how long it takes these drivers to get back from the other place when they solemnly waver that have not been anywhere except "waiting around the corner."
By the end of all things comes some day. She was in decollete costume too. Eyes as black as midnight and hair.of the color of the ravens wings. Slightly unsteady in her gait, but who cares for that after a night like this? In entering the carriage she got on familiar terms with her silken gown, and, well, it was a mercy that she did not break her neck in the fall. As she gathered herself together for the final plunge there was a smile upon her face and a dreamy look in her eye. "Not quite as lively as some Maennerchor balls," she murmured, "but I had a good time, and the others can take care of themselves." In another year, but that's twelve months hence; what's the use of worrying about that now?
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