DANCING TONIGHT. The placards went up about as fast as they were torn down, and meant that the whole affair opened with a series of fistfights for the general entertainment. Mostly between the Skeleton Men on the one hand and the Button Men on the other. The rest of the lowcity kept its own council, trembled with activity, and looked to the North and the West; the directions of the Foundries. The Tellers of Stones and Bones did banner business, spilling entrails, casting marked bones, reading the skies for the signs of a Thunderbird's passing, reading the clouds and the feathers of fallen birds, creating patterns in every sign of the earth, sky and river. The low houses by the dock changed and cleaned all the glass shades of their gaslamps, shored up sodden and drooping boardwalks, tramped down the earth in front for easy access, sewed up some of the garments and shredded some others. They couldn't count on business, necessarily, but the whores were only a side-dish, an aperitif. No one came to the Lowcities /just/ for that, least of all the Dancers-- the Dancer, and all of its shining children. Why did they come? For the water, grumble the Button Men, to glut the Spider-Bitch on the blood of the lowdwellers and to eat the meat of the Beasts. What do the Skeleton Men say? Well, I shall tell you.