“The husband,” explains the lad kindly, “is suspected by his wife to have been leading a double life, though of course he was never guilty of more than an indiscretion—­”

Jake Berger here exploded rudely into speech again.  “Thai wife is leading a double chin,” says Jake.

“Say, people,” says Lon Price, “mebbe it ain’t too late to go to a show this evening.”

But the curtain went up for the second act and nobody had the nerve to escape.  There continued to be low murmurs of rebellion, just the same, and we all lost track of this here infamy that was occurring on the stage.

“I’m sure going to beat it in one minute,” says Jeff Tuttle, “if one of ’em don’t exclaim:  ‘Oh, girls, here comes the little dancer!’”

“I know a black-face turn that could put this show on its feet,” says Lon Price, “and that Waldo in the sport suit ain’t any real reason why wives leave home—­you can’t tell me!”

“I dare say this leading woman needs a better vehicle,” says the New Yorker in a hoarse whisper.

“I dare say it, too,” says Jeff Tuttle in a still hoarser whisper.  “A better vehicle!  She needs a motor truck, and I’d order one quick if I thought she’d take it.”

Of course this was not refined of Jeff.  The New Yorker winced and loyal Ben glares at all of us that has been muttering, so we had to set there till the curtain went down on the ruined home where all was lost save honour—­and looking like that would have to go, too, in the next act.  But Ben saw it wasn’t safe to push us any further so he now said this powerful play was too powerful for a bunch of low-brows like us and we all rushed out into the open air.  Everybody cheered up a lot when we got there—­seeing the nice orderly street traffic without a gripping moment in it.  Lon Price said it was too late to go to a theatre, so what could we do to pass the time till morning?  Ben says he has a grand idea and we can carry it out fine with this New York man to guide us.  His grand idea is that we all go down on the Bowery and visit tough dives where the foul creatures of the underworld consort and crime happens every minute or two.  We was still mad enough about that play to like the idea.  A good legitimate murder would of done wonders for our drooping spirits.  So Ben puts it up to the New Yorker and he says yes, he knows a vicious resort on the Bowery, but we’d ought to have a detective from central office along to protect us from assault.  Ben says not at all—­no detective—­unless the joints has toughened up a lot since he used to infest ’em, and we all said we’d take a chance, so again we was in taxicabs.  Us four in the second cab was now highly cynical about Ben’s New Yorker.  The general feeling was that sooner or later he would sink the ship.

Then we reach the dive he has picked out; a very dismal dive with a room back of the bar that had a few tables and a piano in it and a sweet-singing waiter.  He was singing a song about home and mother, that in mem-o-ree he seemed to see, when we got to our table.  A very gloomy and respectable haunt of vice it was, indeed.  There was about a dozen male and female creatures of the underworld present sadly enjoying this here ballad and scowling at us for talking when we come in.