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 uberantly swung her off her feet as the encore commenced, and whirled her about him.

The drummer, expert at such parties, was watching the floor with especially vigilant eye to the fat, bald Lothario who, controlling a business of half a million, was worth all the others in the room. Instantly he beat a roll on the snare drum, timed to the swing of Di in Jello's grasp. It aided in the excitation of Methuselah, who not unnaturally was slightly sensitive as to his obvious years and who determined to deny them by a feat of perilous emulation.

Age, however, had diminished him to a meager, bony frame, undoubtedly to be envied, on the score of longevity, in comparison with Jello's but deplorably deficient in avoirdupois to qualify him as a competent pivot about which to swing a hundred-and-ten-pound girl. He started bravely and beautifully enough, with a snare drum accompaniment tempting him on to increased efforts by its cheering crescendo, br-r-r-at-atat-tat.

Meth tried to meet the challenge of speed and acceleration. He swung his partner from the floor, turned with her, spun with her. Faster rattled the snare drum, and Methuselah tried to keep up. His spirit was willing, but his shanks were weak. He twisted his legs, turning, and tripped. Up went his shoes, down went his seat, and he plumped upon the hardwood, his partner sprawling.

Boom! beat the bass drum, celebrating the thump at the finish. "Attaboy; attaboy!" shrilled Jello, in high humor, while Mo, of Iowa, started to him, out of the sympathy of common years. Art Slengel also hurried toward him, but Methuselah waved them away. He refused first