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"MEXICAN jumping beans, Señor, Mexican jumping beans," the ragged child cried.
"Buy da cigarettes. Four packs for da quartaire," whined another. On the curb stood a sallow, dark, half-breed. He held a tiny chihuahua in his hand and smiled. "Pancho Villa, he very bad dog. Bite ver' hard. Real chihuahua—twenty-five dollars."
In Frank and Jack's, upstairs, Anita Rogers pulled down the shades.
"You get yourself set over there, Poppa. What do you want?"
"What have you got?" said the man sheepishly.
"Five, ten or fifteen," she said curtly, "with or without trimmings."
The man was about forty. He was tall, thin and pale.
"How does a nice American girl like you get into a place like this?" he asked.
"None of your sweet god-damned business, Poppa," she said. "Thanks." She went to the dresser, took a notebook and a pencil-stub from the drawer and began to write.
"What're you doing?" asked the man anxiously.
"Keeping my accounts. You put what you got where it belongs and I'll be with you in a jiffy, honey."
"But you dance so swell. When I saw you and that kid do your stuff I said to Jim, I said, 'I'd like to meet her,' but he give me the ha-ha. Said it couldn't be done. When
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