The Bricklayers' is always lively--tugs-of-war, fat-man races, real Irish jiggin', an'...

an' everything.

An' The floor of the pavilion's swell." But the elderly woman brought another interruption.

She dropped her iron on the shirtwaist, clutched at the board, fumbled it, caved in at the knees and hips, and like a half-empty sack collapsed on the floor, her long shriek rising in the pent room to the acrid smell of scorching cloth.

The women at the boards near to her scrambled, first, to the hot iron to save the cloth, and then to her, while the forewoman hurried belligerently down the aisle.