The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1913-04-18
BUsrANoBYs ON
SUNDAY EVENING
New York Sun.)

Inst as the clock struck six last ovening CSunday) in the Trotteris de Bustanoby, a negro professor of the Texas Tommy gave the terpsichorean 5iu jitsu to the Hege descendant of a long line of negro queens, chuclzed her to the ceiling, caught her deftly, slam med her from his left arm to his right and loosed a long howl-the high gloat Of an artist who knew his work was good.
 Was there Sunday turkey trotting? |? Was there ?-wait a. minute. The ne gro professor hadn't any more than finished polishing the floor with hds woman partner than a well known professor of mathematics in this not unlxnown city plopped a woman's hat on the back of his head, announced ro all within hearing that he might be late today for his class in quad ratio equations, but he should worry. and sprang on to the floor to initiate with an exceedingly good looking young woman the dance just finished by the brunette professional. The young woman was his own wife. Oh. yes, she was. And as they slid for ward in the first dip, in the fastest and freakiest of all the trOts, she sounded a note of caution.
 Sammy" she mummured, 'I hope to goodness this doesn't get to the Proxy. It would give him heart fail- ure and cost us a $1, 800 job-'
 Whatever Professor Sammy thought about it was lost in the syncopated dangling of the piano and banjo and trap drum, but there was doubt in the world that the $1, 800 mathemati- cal job didn't mean any more to him yesterday than a buffalo nickel. The professor wasn't what you would call an expert in Texas tommying, but he was earnest. He was trying to grasp the idea
 Ali at once the floor was crowded so crowded that French heels secured the shiny patent leather sur faces of conflicting boots; that an kIeS became locked, and girls, hear mg oninous rips underneath, were heard to inquire what the reason was for big boobs with two left feet try ing to dance; that sometimes elbow punched you in the ribs so hard you grunted; so crowded, in fact, that the dancers seemed in one embrace, sway ing ecstatically.
 There was a girl that maybe you have seen often along Broadway or in hotel Hobbies waiting for somebody to come along to buy her a dinner. She will never see 35 again, but she was dressed IT dresses in the Ten derloin-a Bulgarian blouse, a skirt so light that one wondered what she wore a skirt at all for, and slit to the knee. Her catch for the day was a child who looked as if he might have coney and who will never, never turn out to be an intellectual giant.
 Hopping and prancing, swaying ane s11ding was woman who couldn't have been a day less than 50, but she had been following George Marion's famous maxim concerning the turkey trOt the more you drink the better you dance it." A cocktail and trot, a cocktail and a trot, a cocktail and tr ot: so passed the day.
 Nowhere in New York, week day or Sunday was there ever a gayer, glad sorner exhibition of the turkey trot than in Bustanoby's yesterday. To piano and banjo and drum and the sound of hilarious voices there rocked for hours the dance that has turned the head Of the town:
 s-SIide, slide, keep on a-slidin',
 Glide glide, keep on a-glidin',
 Honey, look into your baby's eyes, Dur your arm around me,
 Ain't you glad you found me? Tease. squeeze. lovin' and movin' O Babe, what are you doin'?''
 More than POO men and women and girls and boys stepped to that hymn Of the turkey trot yesterday after 7ocn and the police were nice enough tl let Papa Bustanoby get away with st Where other trotteries were dark, where other floors were accommodating the dust of neglect, Bustanoby's was ringing with hiIarity and splashing with wine sl