"And now," said the master of ceremonies, "I give you--Miss Ethel Waters." I walked up and onto the stage--and there was a gasp. And you should have seen all those young female varmints and old harpies. After I finished they fluttered and flashed kindness and warmth all around me. "Where you been, Miss Waters?" they asked as they crowded round. "Where have you been hiding yourself all the way from New York?" Now I know how to fight and take care of myself, as you know. But sometimes not fighting is better and hurts the other fellow more. I just smiled and told them sweetly: "Why, ladies, I haven't been hiding anywhere. I've been on this ship all this time, and in plain sight. I've been on the deck every day in my chair. Now that I come to think of it, I've seen you all each day, and I'm sure you saw me. "But none of you spoke to me. Not one of you. Yet I'm the very same person as I was yesterday. I have the same face, same body, and same color." The main number I had just sung as appropriate for the occasion was "Trav'lin' All Alone." << less