midnight
Recruiting stations have flung out imperious banners . Keeley 's Chop-House -- Open All Night -- reluctantly swings its too hospitable doors to the one-o'clock-closing mandate . To the New-Yorker whose nights must be filled with music , preferably jazz , to pass Keeley 's and find it dark is much as if Bacchus , emulating the newest historical rogue , had donned cassock and hood . Even that half of the evening east of the cork-popping land of the midnight son has waned at Keeley 's . No longer a road-house on the incandescent road to dawn , there is something hangdog about its very waiters , moving through the easy maze of half-filled tables ; an orchestra , sheepish of its accomplishment , can lift even a muted melody above the light babel of light diners . There is a cabaret , too , bravely bidding for the something that is gone . At twelve o'clock , five of near-Broadway 's best breed , in woolly anklets and wristlets and a great shaking of curls , execute the poodle-prance to half the encores of other days .