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around at the fresh gay trimmings of yellow and blue, at the silken wear of his choristers, at the tables crowded with women and men who would wed-dress a flower show or a horse race, and he says, slightly distending his platinum-buttoned shirt front:
“Changed? I should say! Time was when society women came in here under black veils looking for dark corners. Now their veils and heads are up. They walk into the Midnite Frolic like they’d walk into the Ritz-Carlton, and the first thing they ask the head waiter is, ‘Have you got a center table?’”
“You’ve seen some nights in the old place, Ike.” “My boy! And some sights, too. I saw Walter Shaftel come in here the night after he’d won the Derby with Highball and order a glass of ‘wine’ for everybody in the house. I had one of the boxes — there were boxes then — decorated with his colors. He finished his drink and was on his way to the next place. He says: ‘How much for that round, Ike?’ ‘I really don’t know,’ I told him. ‘Well, ring up this,’ says he, and hands me twenty-five hundred iron men.”
“Them was the !”
He interrupts to say he does miss one old “bunch.” But there is no great pathos in this admission when he names them as “the reformers.” He steps a couple of tables away mildly to caution a badged and flushed visitor not to tease the soprano, and takes up :
“I recall the night Arthur Burrage Farvvell comes in here with a band of famous evangelists. I tell ’em to go as far as they like; they’re welcome to convert everybody in the place. I give them the freedom of the tables; I order the drinks all around — lemonade; and when they ask for the center of the dance floor to kneel down and pray and sing ‘Washed in the Blood of the Lamb,’ I give it to ’em. I give ’em my jazz band,