“Molly, My Darling, There’s No One Like You” is a piece of music permitting the making of strange sounds, and when Mr. Crimm sings it the sounds are stranger.  At the third verse he asked all present to join in the chorus, and the effect was transforming.  Bettina, standing in front of him, eyes uplifted as if entranced, and hands clasped tightly behind her back, was ready at the first word to join in, and shrilly her young voice piped an accompaniment to the deep notes of her official friend.  With a nod of his head and a time-beating movement of both hands, Mr. Crimm began his work of leadership, and in five minutes every one in the room was around him, save his wife, who kept her seat, her lips tight and her eyes on the floor.

As a garment thrown off, the stiffness disappeared, and feet tapped and heads moved to the rhythmic swing of first one song and then another, but finally Mr. Crimm wiped his perspiring face and called for silence.

“It’s Archie’s time now.  Step up, Archie, and tell the ladies and gentlemen how ‘Mary Rode the Goat, She Did.’  Shying is out of fashion.  Step lively, Archie.  This, ladies and gentlemen—­” Mr. Crimm waved one hand and with the other grasped firmly the collar of his young friend’s coat and drew him forward, “is Mr. Archer Barbee, who will now entertain you.  Begin, Archie.  Make your bow and begin.”

For a moment Archie stood in solemn silence, hands crossed on his breast and thumbs revolving rapidly.  His lips made odd movements, although from them came no sound, and vacantly he stared ahead of him, in his eyes no expression, in his manner no hint of what was coming.  Short and fat, with face round and red, hair red and curly, and ears of a prodigious size, he made a queer picture; and, ignorant of his power of mimicry and impersonation, I kept my seat on the piano-stool.  That is for a while I kept it.  When safety lay no longer on it I took refuge on the sofa.  First, smiles had followed his beginning words, then shouts of laughter, then shrieks of it; and little gasping screams and bending of bodies and convulsive doubling up; and when finally he stopped we were spent and breathless, and for a while I could not see.  When again my eyes were clear, Fannie Harris was standing by me.

“If you think you can stand up, the room is ready for dancing.”  She pointed ahead of her.  “Please look at Mrs. Mundy.  She’ll split her best black silk if she doesn’t stop.”

Mrs. Mundy’s cackles were getting shorter and shorter and, wiping her eyes, she joined us and nodded at Mr. Guard.

“I haven’t laughed as much since the first time I went to the circus, and if there’s anything better for the insides than laughing, I’ve never took it.  Seems to me it clears out low-downness and sour spirits better than any tonic you can buy, and for plum wore-outness a good laugh’s more resting than sleep.  When you’re ready to have the hot things brought up, let me know, Miss Dandridge.  Martha’s down-stairs and everything’s ready and just waiting for the word.”