“One more couple,” roared the floor-master.
William was getting excited.
“You can dance with the best of ’em. Come ’long.”
“Really now, Beel, jest a minute.”
The twang of the fiddle commenced and the cracked, quavering notes of the horn arose above the buzz of conversation.
“Bow yer corners—now yer own,” cried the leader.
And the young man sat down on the stump in disgust.
“We’ll hev to git in the next,” he said. “Why, it’s eesy. You see this here’s only a plain quadreel. Ye otter see one thet ain’t plain—one o’ them where they hes sech figgers ez ‘first lady on the war-dance,’ like they done at the big weddin’ up in Raccoon Walley th’ee year ago. These is plain. I never danced ’em afore meself, but I’ve seen ’em do it an’ I’ve ben practisin’. All ye’ll hev to do is to mind me.”
So the following dance found them on the platform among the first. The girl was trembling, blushing and self-conscious; the young man self-conscious but triumphant and composed.
“Bow yer partners,” cried the floor-master when the orchestra had started its scraping.