On Saturday night and village revels one penny was the accustomed fee for man and partner.
“Now then,” cried the musician, going his rounds and jingling the coppers in his tambourine, “now then, for the next dance. Six down; who makes eight? Now then, mates and partners, for double lead through the next country dance. Ten down; who makes twelve? Oh, there isn’t a twelve (cheerfully); then we’ll go on as we are.”
All the other popular dances were done in due notation. “Step-and-Fetch-it,” “The Tramp,” “Lee Po,” “Hands Across,” “Six Bond,” &c.
“Want more corn vith your galop?” inquired a man, bringing the almost but never quite exhausted musicians some mugs of “Mickle my buff.”
“Ah, we shan’t hurt to-night,” they said. “It’s real fiddlers’ fare here—meat, drink, and money.”
Several single dances were next performed, such as hornpipes, “The Dunhill Parson,” “The Broom Dance,” “The Pipe Dance,” and others of the same calibre, after which a kind of cushion dance, called “Bob-in-the-Bowster,” which was provocative of much kissing and enjoyment.
In the meantime the old women were steadily drinking all the while, amusing themselves at same time with a game of cards, called “Laugh and Lay Down,” and with another game, which none but rustics can understand, and which is played by inscribing chalk lines both ways upon a table, and making spots between the squares.
Kate Morgan, the Lady of the Lamb, as she was termed on the eventful day, had withdrawn from the throng of merry-makers, and Joe Doughty, who had not ceased watching her the whole evening, followed her.
She turned and saw him. Then his heart, which had been so stout in the furrowed field, began to tremble like a timid bird.
“Well,” said his companion.