He beat time on the bottom of it, and frequently interrupted the Thread Man to repeat a couplet which particularly suited him.

By and by he got to his feet and began stepping off a slow dance to a sing-song repetition of lines that sounded musical to him, all the time marking the measures vigorously on the pail.

When he tired of a couplet, he pounded the pail over the bar, stove, or chairs in encore, until the Thread Man could think up another to which he could dance.
"Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine! The Nightingale cried to the rose," chanted Jimmy, thumping the pail in time, and stepping off the measures with feet that scarcely seemed to touch the floor.

He flung his hat to the barkeeper, and his coat on a chair, ruffled his fingers through his thick auburn hair, and holding the pail under one arm, he paused, panting for breath and begging for more.

The Thread Man sat on the edge of his chair, and the eyes he fastened on Jimmy were beginning to fill with interest.
"Come fill the Cup and in the fire of Spring Your Winter-Garment of Repentance fling.
The bird of time has but a little way to flutter And the bird is on the wing." Smash came the milk pail across the bar.