Down went the gray poke bonnet. Down went the great derby, and a smile of joy overspread the broad face beneath it.
“Swing yer partners!”
The great arms went around the plump form, lifting it from its feet; their owner spun about, carefully replaced his burden on the floor, bowed, smiled and whispered, “Ain’t it grand?”
“Corners!”
The young woman in blue satin gave a slight scream that was metamorphosed into a giggle, as she felt herself swung through space in the arms of the muscular person toward whom she had careened. Her partner, one of the city men with silk hats, grinned and whispered in her ear, “Oatcake.”
“Leads for’a’d an’ back!”
William Larker seized his partner’s plump hand and bounded forward, bowing and twisting, his free arm gesticulating in unison with his legs and feet. He was in the thick of the dance now; in it with his whole heart. Whenever there was any “dozy-doughing” to be done, William did it. If a couple went “visitin’,” he was with them. When “ladies in the center” was called, he was there. In every grand chain he turned the wrong way. He gripped the women’s hands until they groaned inwardly. He tramped on and crushed the patent leather pumps of a young city man, and in response to a muttered something smiled his unconcern, bolted back to his corner, swung his partner and murmured, “Ain’t it grand?” The young women giggled and winked at their acquaintances in the next set; the forward youth in a bicycle suit talked about roadsweepers, and the city man said again, “Oatcake.”
But the young Dunkard was unconscious of it all to the end—the end that came most suddenly and broke up the dancing.
“Swing yer partners!” bawled the floor-master.
William Larker obeyed. A ragged bit of the sole of his shoe caught in a crack and over he went, off the high platform, with his partner clasped tight in his arms.