“You can dance, Phil? I know you can by the way you’ve been beating your feet every time the band plays. Go on, man!”
“I could dance, once,” said Phil, “but–––”
“Once! Spirit of my great-great-grandfather! You talk like Methuselah.”
“I haven’t danced for five years.”
“Good heavens, man! This five years of yours gets 152 on my nerves. You must have Rip Van Winkled five years of your precious life away.”
The remark bit deep; and Phil grew solemn and did not reply.
Jim looked into his face soberly, then placed his arm on Phil’s shoulder.
“Sorry, old man! I’m an indiscreet idiot. Didn’t mean to be rude,” he said.
Phil smiled.
“But say,” Jim urged, still bent on providing himself with some amusement, “go to it and enjoy yourself. Go on, man;––don’t be scared!” he goaded.