The crowd around the dancing floor—some even climbing into the haymows—had come to see as well as to participate in the dancing. More than the ladies and young people of Polktown had taken up the dance craze. And those who were ashamed to try the steps, or who did not know how, were eager to observe the gyrations of the others.
Bogarti was present—was a sort of Master of Ceremonies, in fact. The simpler dances, played by the orchestra in one end of the haymow, were for the guests in general. But when the measures rang out to which the tango, fox-trot, and such complicated steps were danced, the dancing master and his most successful pupils were about all who ventured on the floor.
Annette, the Slater girls, Maggie Price, and a few other young women, with Frank Bowman and some young men who had come out from the city for the occasion, exhibited the fancy dances. This was all very well, as far as it went. But once when Frank was out of the barn, Bogarti seized Miss Bowman, and they danced in a way to utterly scandalize many of the plainer people present.
The girl seemed utterly reckless on this night. She did not care what she did, or what she said. Knowing the temper of his constituents, the Judge sent his wife to speak to the girl and advise her to deport herself in a quieter manner. Annette’s actions really sent some of the stricter people home from the dance early.
Janice was sorry for Frank. At first he did not understand why the people were whispering together, and staring at Annette. He knew she was acting pretty recklessly; but he had not seen her fancy dancing with Bogarti. When Mrs. Slater, her face very much flushed and her eyes hard and angry, came to him and asked him to take his sister home, the blow to the young man’s pride was a severe one, indeed.
“I am sorry to seem harsh, Mr. Bowman,” said the Judge’s wife; “but I have my own daughters’ reputation to think of. Annette is utterly reckless. The exhibition she made of herself just now on this floor, in the arms of that silky, oiled foreigner——”
“What foreigner?” demanded Frank.
“Bogarti.”
“Oh—that chap!” Frank would have laughed had not the Judge’s wife been so serious. “His real name’s O’Brien, and Annette and I have known him since we were kids. O’Brien isn’t a bad sort, and he’s the husband of our old nurse. That hair and mustache of his are dyed.”
“But people don’t know it,” said Mrs. Slater. “She has disgraced herself and you. I could not countenance such a thing. The Judge could not countenance such a thing. It would be as much as his nomination is worth. You must take her away, Mr. Bowman. I am very sorry to ask you to go.”