“All right, ponies !”
“Shake it up!”
“Hey, ponies—how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a mean hip?”
The coach fumed helplessly, the Triangle Club president, glowering with anxiety, varied between furious bursts of authority and fits of temperamental lassitude, when he sat spiritless and wondered how the devil the show was ever going on tour by Christmas.
“All right. We’ll take the pirate song.”
The ponies took last drags at their cigarettes and slumped into place; the leading lady rushed into the foreground, setting his hands and feet in an atmospheric mince; and as the coach clapped and stamped and tumped and da-da’d, they hashed out a dance.
A great, seething ant-hill was the Triangle Club. It gave a musical comedy every year, travell