"Dog-goned if it is!" says he. "Guess I can wait around outside, can't
I?"

"Well, you have got sportin' blood, Ira," says I. "Sure, there's
nothin' to stop your waitin' if you don't block the traffic. But maybe
it'll be an hour or more."

"I don't care," says he. "And--and let's go and have a glass of soda
first."

Course, I couldn't go away and leave things all up in the air like
that; so after Ira'd blown himself we wanders up to the cabaret joint
and I helps him stick around.

It's some lively scene in front of Looey's at that time of night too;
with all the taxis comin' and goin' and the kalsomined complexions
driftin' in and out, and the head waiters coppin' out the five-spots
dexterous. And every little while there's something extra doin'; like
a couple of college hicks bein' led out by the strong-arm squad for
disputin' a bill, or a perfect gent all ablaze havin' a debate with his
lady-love, or a bunch of out-of-town buyers discoverin' the evenin'
dress rule for the first time and gettin' peeved over it.

But nothin' can drag Ira's gaze from that revolvin' exit door for
more'n half a minute. There he stands, watchin' eager every couple
that comes out; not excited or fidgety, you understand, but calm and in
dead earnest. It got to be midnight, then half past, then quarter to
one; and then all of a sudden there comes a ripplin', high-pitched
laugh, and out trips a giddy-dressed fairy in a gilt and rhinestone