“Who is he, anyhow? I never seen ‘im before. Where’d he come from?” asked the girls.
“I dunno,” said Bill Moody; “he didn’t say much. Talk seemed all froze up. Frenchy, ‘cordin’ to what he did say. Guess he must a come from Canady, workin’ on a lumber job up Raquette River way. Got bounced out o’ the camp, p’raps. All them Frenchies is queer.”
This summary of national character appeared to command general assent.
“Yaas,” said Hose Ransom, “did ye take note how he hung on to that pack o’ his’n all the time? Wouldn’t let go on it. Wonder what ‘t wuz? Seemed kinder holler ‘n light, fer all ‘twuz so big an’ wropped up in lots o’ coverin’s.”
“What’s the use of wonderin’?” said one of the younger boys; “find out later on. Now’s the time fer dancin’. Whoop ‘er up!”
So the sound of revelry swept on again in full flood. The men and maids went careering up and down the room. Serena’s willing fingers laboured patiently over the yellow keys of the reluctant melodion. But the ancient instrument was weakening under the strain; the bellows creaked; the notes grew more and more asthmatic.
“Hold the Fort” was the tune, “Money Musk” was the dance; and it was a preposterously bad fit. The figure was tangled up like a fishing-line after trolling all day without a swivel. The dancers were doing their best, determined to be happy, as cheerful as possible, but all out of time. The organ was whirring and gasping and groaning for breath.
Suddenly a new music filled the room.
The right tune—the real old joyful “Money Musk,” played jubilantly, triumphantly, irresistibly—on a fiddle!
The melodion gave one final gasp of surprise and was dumb.