A glittering array of lamps, some loaned for the occasion, made the hall brilliant; while a smooth birch floor, polished and waxed as shining as any man-o’warsman’s deck, reflected the illumination and offered an inviting surface for dancing.
Overhead, on the floor above, it was often customary to serve a baked bean supper before the dancing, with its inevitable accompaniment of pie of many varieties.
Everybody took part in the dances, from Benny Jones, who had one wooden leg, but who could hop through the Boston Fancy with amazing nimbleness, to old Billy Cook, who arrayed his feet, usually bare, in a pair of heavy boots that reached to his knees, and in which he clattered about the hall with a noise like a flock of sheep. Even the squire consented to unbend from his dignity on some of these occasions, stalking through a few dances stiffly, as a man carved out of wood.
As for young Harry Brackett, he would have been welcomed, also, and indeed had formerly taken part in the festivities. But, since his return from Boston and from some of the livelier summer resorts, he had referred to the island dances contemptuously as “slow.”
The campers usually went up to see the fun; and Henry Burns, who was a favourite about the island, and George Warren were usually to be seen among the dancers.
By far the most important functionary of all, however, was a quaint, little, grizzled old man, who was not a resident of the island, but lived six miles away, over across on the cape. “Uncle Bill” Peters, with his squeaking fiddle and well-resined bow, was, in fact, the whole orchestra. He was the one indispensable man of all. He had a tireless arm that had been known to scrape the wailing fiddle-strings from twilight to early morning on more than one occasion, inspiring the muse now and then with a little tobacco, which did not hinder him from calling off the numbers in a singsong, penetrating voice.
Early in the day, when a dance was arranged, it was the duty of some one to sail across to the cape and fetch “Uncle Billy” over, his arrival being the occasion for an ovation on the part of a selected committee.
“You’re goin’ up to the dance, I see,” remarked Rob Dakin to Billy Cook, one evening shortly following the adventures down in the Thoroughfare, just narrated.
“Well, I reckon,” answered Billy, reaching into a cracker-barrel and abstracting some odds and ends of hardtack.
It was easy enough for anybody to see, for Billy’s boots occupied a large part of the store doorway, as he seated himself in a chair, and crossed one leg over the other.