The goat had broken away from the irate old man, as soon as might be, and John had risen stiffly to his feet. But his bashfulness was past. Also, his lameness was again forgotten, as one masquerader after another whirled about him, catching his coat skirts or his arm and laughingly daring him:
“Guess who I am!”
He didn’t even try, but entered into the fun with as great zest as any youngster present, and it must be admitted, making a greater noise than any. Around and around the great hall sped the goat, somebody having mischievously closed the doors to prevent its escape; and across and about chased the merrymakers, tossing off their masks to see and careless now who guessed their identity.
“Baal!” “Baal here!” “Who owns him? Where did he come from?” “What makes him so slippery? I wonder if he’s been greased!”
At last answered the farmer:
“I guess I could tell you who owns him, but I’d better not. I don’t want to get nobody into trouble, much as he deserves it.”
“‘He?’ Is it a ‘he’ then and not one of the girls?” demanded Winifred.
But he did not inform her, merely asking when it would be time to bob for apples.
“Because I know they’re prime. They come out Dame’s choisest bar’l. Grew on a tree she’ll let nobody touch, not even me.”
“Apples! Apples! My turn first!” cried Florita Sheraton, stooping her fat body above the “caldron” into which some of the fruit had been tossed. But she failed, of course, her frantic efforts to plant her white teeth in any one of the apples resulting only in the wetting of her paper crown and ruff, as well as the ripping of her hastily made “robe.” Then the others crowded around the great kettle, good naturedly pushing first comers aside while but a few succeeded in obtaining a prize. Old John was one of these; so gay and lively that the audience found him the most amusing feature of the entertainment.