is not noisy.  In the Brevoort there is a steady, low rumble of talk, but not actual noise.  At the Black Cat it is one continual and all-pervading roar—­a joyous roar, too; these people are having a simply gorgeous time and don’t care who knows it.  It is a wonder that the high-set rafters do not fall—­that the lofty, whitewashed walls of brick do not tremble, and that the little black cats set in a rigid conventional design around the whole room do not come to life in horror, and fly spitting up the short stairway and out of the door!

When you go to the Black Cat you would better check what prejudices you have as to what is formal and fitting, and leave them with your coat at the entrance.  Not that it is disreputable—­Luigi would pale with the shock of such a thought!  It is just—­Bohemian!  Everyone does exactly what he wishes to do.  Sometimes, one person’s wishes conflict with someone else’s, and then there is a fight, and the police are called, and the rest of the patrons have a beautiful time watching a perfectly good and unexpected free show!  As a rule, however, this determination on the part of each one to do what he wants to has no violent results.  An incident will show something of the entire liberty allowed in the Black Cat.  A man came in with two girls, and, seeing a jolly stag party at another table, decided to join them.  He promptly did so, with, as far as could be seen, no word of excuse to his feminine companions.  In a moment two young men strolled up to their table and sat down.

“Your friend asked us to come over here and take his place,” explained one nonchalantly.  “You don’t object, ladies?”

The girls received them amiably.  Apparently no one thought of such a formality as names or introductions.  The original host stayed away for the rest of the evening, but the four new acquaintances seemed to get along quite satisfactorily without him.

A young married woman from uptown came in with her husband and two other men.  A good-looking lad, much flushed and a little unsteady, stopped by her chair.

“Say, k-kid,” he exclaimed, with a disarming chuckle, “you’re the prettiest girl here—­and you come here with three p-protectors!  Say, it’s a shame!”

He lurched cheerfully upon his way and even the slightly conservative husband found a grudging smile wrung out of him.

There is a pianist at the Black Cat—­a real pianist, not just a person who plays the piano.  She is a striking figure in a quaint, tunic-like dress, greying hair and a keen face, and a personal friend of half the frequenters.  She has an uncanny instinct for the psychology of the moment.  She knows just when “Columbia” will be the proper thing to play, and when the crowd demands the newest rag-time.  She will feel an atmospheric change as unswervingly as any barometer, and switch in a moment from “Good-bye Girls, Good-bye” to the love duet from Faust.  She can play Chopin just as well as she can play Sousa,