Again Sleepy Sandy was considerate and cut this number short also.
Then Betty came running breathlessly up to Pen.
“Jo says if you don’t dance with him this next time like you promised, he’ll drown the kittens. Please, Aunt Pen!”
Jo was promptly on hand this time.
“This is mine,” he asserted, “unless you’re danced out by that gink.”
“My dancing blood isn’t up yet,” she said, slipping into his arms. She didn’t care to know the name of the dance. All she knew was the ecstasy of the moment in the flowing, melting rhythm. Jo had the easy assurance of the dancer born, and she went where he willed, as if she were floating on silver wires. Finally, Sleepy Sandy, watching them in envious admiration, was aware that he had played as long as the law of limit allowed.
“Isn’t this better than Reilly’s?” she asked demurely.
“There will never in the world be to me a night like the one at Reilly’s,” he replied.
“Jo, why don’t you go into vaudeville? Your dancing would bring you twice what your work here must.”
“Mine is a man’s job,” he retorted. “I’d rather dance horseback than on any stage. I have to go over to Farley with a lot of cattle to-morrow. It will take me three days. You will arrange to see me again when I come back?”