As I watched her swiftly-moving and gyrating figure, I was filled with pity for myself and others—for all that vast multitude of humans who could never again recover the fine, free Spirit of Youth. In our blindness we might seek palliatives against pain, and foolish stimulants for jaded nerves and waning appetites and diminishing pleasures, but our greatest endeavors would always be in vain. One by one, we were creeping onwards and downwards. Here and there, a little rise on Life's roadway; here and there, a whiff of fresh keen air again; here and there a shaft of sunlight in a slowly darkening world; but always that view of the straight pathway which leads down to a "ripe old age."
The Song of Youth, with its rippling, flute-like accompaniment, grew faster and faster until at last it suddenly stopped and I heard Molly cry out in a loud (and almost breathless) voice:
"Oh! . . . You are mean! . . . How can I keep up with that?"
The concertina slackened its speed into a mere drawl and then changed into a terrible discord of squeaks and grunts.
"I believe Molly's shaking the old chap!" whispered Croft.
We brought our boat to a standstill, anxious to remain an unseen audience for a little while longer.
"Do stop playing!" cried Molly.
"I have!" answered Taffy.
"I don't mean that playing—I mean being so silly! Do you know any Irish jigs?"
Evidently he did, for the next moment the concertina broke out into a wild, Celtic dance tune.