"I hear you dug a wristwatch at Emerson's last month, Frankie," he said.
"Nothing doing." Frankie made a move, "Ernie gave me a slave bracelet. I turned it down. When I begin collecting trinkets, put me in the old ladies' home. Cash on delivery is my house rule."
"Boys up!" called the assistant stage manager. The group fell into line as the chorus girls filed off stage, where those chosen buzzed with excitement.
"Less noise!" someone shouted.
"Julie looks a little relieved," Frankie said. He was chubby, Irish, pink-cheeked, a typical Tenth Avenue lad.
"Where is he?" asked Ray. "I never could see over these foots. I feel perfectly awful. Julie knows who I am, what I am and what I can do!"
"What can't you do, dearie?" Harry whispered.
"Nice mans, go 'way and let babykins sleep," Frankie replied. He did a brisk tap break on the ground cloth.
"Quiet!" roared the assistant stage manager.
In the second row sat Jules Monroe, the dance director. He leaned forward on a long bamboo walking stick, his bald head shining in the reflection of the flood lights, his lean tense face and cold dark eyes conveying the impression of fire within a hard exterior. His lips lighted with a contemptuous smile as he recognized old-timers in the line of boys.
"Frankie Regan, is that the best suit of clothes you own?" he asked in a low pitched voice.
"Not at all, Mr. Monroe," said Frankie.
"Bags under your eyes and over your knees," Jules barked. The other boys giggled.
