Adam began to play at once. The spectators gathered about the astonished and indignant person of severity, thirsty for fun.
“You evidently wanted to dance, therefore by all means commence,” said Adam.
“You are a veritable limb of Satan!” said the man. “You shall be reported for this unseemly——”
“Halberd,” interrupted Adam, “the gentleman is as shy and timid as your veriest girl. Could you not persuade him to dance?”
“I was born for persuasion,” said Halberd. Thereupon he drew from his belt a pistol, most formidable, whether loaded or not, and pushed its metal lips against the neck of the hedged-in Puritan, whom he continued to restrain by the collar. “Make merry for this goodly company by doing a few dainty steps,” he requested.
The crowd pushed in closer and roared with delight. Some one among them knocked the reluctant dancer’s knees forward. He almost fell down.
“He’s beginning!” cried Adam, and he went for his fiddle with the bow as if he were fencing with a dozen pirates.
“Dance!” commanded Halberd, “dance!”
Terpsichore’s victim was not a man of sand. Drops of perspiration oozed out on his forehead. A look of abject fear drove the mask of severity from his face. He jumped up and down ridiculously, his knees knocking together for his castanets.
“Faster!” cried Adam, fiddling like a madman.