Big John’s admiring eye encountered Maybelle.
“Miss Maybelle of the Alamo-seet,
She’s the lightest on her feet.”
“Yip-pee! Johnnie, old boy, come again!”
“First couple to the center—Bill, stir your lazy bones,
And lead the figger pretty with the beauty from Lame Jones
Yonder on the side porch there’s a tub of lemonade.
Swing—swing your partners. All promen—ade.”
Supper was to have been served at twelve o’clock; but a little after eleven the dust kicked up by the dancing feet from the hard earth floor became so thick that they could scarcely see each other’s faces. Even Big John’s stentorian tones broke off occasionally in a sort of barking snort. The company had just retired somewhat worsted from a polka, when an inspired genius in cowboy boots and clinking spurs He observed with a bucket of water sprinkling the floor.
“Hi, hi, you Red LeGraw!” bellowed Big John from his seat on the edge of the musicians’ table. “For the Lord’s sake, what you doin’? Quit that! Do you aim to bog this dance down right here?”