“I’ve got to go and make up in a few minutes.  So get this.  I’m not going to stick down in this basement eating house forever.  I’ve got too much talent.  If I only had a voice—­I mean a singing voice.  But I haven’t.  But then, neither has Georgie Cohan, and I can’t see that it’s wrecked his life any.  Look at Elsie Janis!  But she sings.  And they like it!  Now listen.  I’ve got a song.  It’s my own.  That bit you played for me up at Gottschalk’s is part of the chorus.  But it’s the words that’ll go big.  They’re great.  It’s an aviation song, see?  Airship stuff.  They’re yelling that it’s the airyoplanes that’re going to win this war.  Well, I’ll help ’em.  This song is going to put the aviator where he belongs.  It’s going to be the big song of the war.  It’s going to make ‘Tipperary’ sound like a Moody and Sankey hymn.  It’s the—­”

Ruby lifted her heavy-lidded eyes and sent him a meaning look.  “Get down to business, Leon.  I’ll tell her how good you are while you’re making up.”

He shot her a malignant glance, but took her advice.  “Now what I’ve been looking for for years is somebody who has got the music knack to give me the accompaniment just a quarter of a jump ahead of my voice, see?  I can follow like a lamb, but I’ve got to have that feeler first.  It’s more than a knack.  It’s a gift.  And you’ve got it.  I know it when I see it.  I want to get away from this cabaret thing.  There’s nothing in it for a man of my talent.  I’m gunning for vaudeville.  But they won’t book me without a tryout.  And when they hear my voice they—­Well, if me and you work together we can fool ’em.  The song’s great.  And my makeup’s one of these av-iation costumes to go with the song, see?  Pants tight in the knee and baggy on the hips.  And a coat with one of those full skirt whaddyoucall’ems—­”

“Peplums,” put in Ruby, placidly.

“Sure.  And the girls’ll be wild about it.  And the words!” he began to sing, gratingly off-key: 

     “Put on your sky clothes,
     Put on your fly clothes
     And take a trip with me. 
     We’ll sail so high
     Up in the sky
     We’ll drop a bomb from Mercury.”

“Why, that’s awfully cute!” exclaimed Terry.  Until now her opinion of Mr. Sammett’s talents had not been on a level with his.

“Yeh, but wait till you hear the second verse.  That’s only part of the chorus.  You see, he’s supposed to be talking to a French girl.  He says: 

     I’ll parlez-vous in Francais plain,
     You’ll answer, ’Cher Americain,
     We’ll both. . . . . . . . . . .”

The six o’clock lights blazed up, suddenly.  A sad-looking group of men trailed in and made for a corner where certain bulky, shapeless bundles were soon revealed as those glittering and tortuous instruments which go to make a jazz band.

“You better go, Lee.  The crowd comes in awful early now, with all those buyers in town.”