down. We drank one another's health and, as politely as we could, pressed
him to tell us the cause for his celebration and good spirits. He began to
talk.

He was a Russian Jew. His name was Sklarz. He had been in the Russian army
years ago. In Persia. From a mountain in Persia you could see three great
countries. In Turkey he had fought with baggy-trousered soldiers and at
night joined them when they played their flutes outside the coffee-houses
and sang songs about women and war. Then he had come to America and opened
a box factory. He was very prosperous and the factory in which he made
boxes grew too small.

So what did he do but take a walk one day to look for a larger factory.
And he found a beautiful building just as he wanted. But the building was
too beautiful to use for a factory. It should be used for something much
nicer. So what did he do then but decide to open a dance-hall, a
magnificent dance-hall, where young men and women of refined, fun-loving
temperaments could come to dance and have fun.

* * * * *

"When does this dance-hall open?" Anderson asked. Ah, in a little while.
There were fittings to buy and put up first. But he would send us special
invitations to the opening. In the meantime would we drink his health
again? Mr. Sklarz chuckled. The amazing thing was that he wasn't drunk. He
was sober.

"So you're celebrating," I said. Yes, he was celebrating. He laughed and
leaned over the table toward us. His eyes danced and his elaborate
mustache made a grotesque halo for his smile. He didn't want to intrude on