I was signed up on the spot. As they were leaving the
barracks one excited young person ran up and halted the arrogant
Thespians. "If I get the doctor to remove my Adam's Apple," he pleaded
wistfully, "do you think you could take me on as a pony?"
"No," said one of them, not without a certain show of kindness. "I
fear not. It would be necessary for him to remove the greater part of
your map and graft a couple of pounds on to your sadly unendowed
limbs."
From that day on my life has become one of unremitting toil. Together
with the rest of the Show Girls I vamp and slouch my way around the
clock with ever increasing seductiveness. We are really doing
splendidly. The ponies come leaping lightly across the floor waving
their freckled, muscular arms from side to side and looking very
unattractive indeed in their B.V.D.'s, high shoes and sock supporters.
"I can see it all," says the Director, in an enthusiastic voice, and
if he can I'll admit he has some robust quality of imagination that I
fail to possess.
Us Show Girls, of course, have to be a little more modest than the
ponies, so we retain our white trousers. These are rolled up, however,
in order to afford the mosquitoes, who are covering the show most
conscientiously, room to roost on.
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