Then suddenly it stopped. The dancers stood still, panting with fatigue. And the children broke from restraint, dashed on the floor, chased one another madly, ran, slid, stole caps, and pulled hair. The dancers sat down, fanning themselves with their hands. The members of the band got up and stretched themselves and sat down again. And the guitar players worked softly over their strings.
Now Willie called, “Choose again for another square, if you can.” The dancers scrambled to their feet and new dancers plunged forward for partners. Tom stood near the three young men. He saw them force their way through, out on the floor, toward one of the forming squares. He waved his hand at Willie, and Willie spoke to the fiddler. The fiddler squawked his bow across the strings. Twenty young men lounged slowly across the floor. The three reached the square. And one of them said, “I’ll dance with this here.”
A blond boy looked up in astonishment. “She’s my partner.”
“Listen, you little son-of-a-bitch—”
Off in the darkness a shrill whistle sounded. The three were walled in now. And each one felt the grip of hands. And then the wall of men moved slowly off the platform.
Willie yelped, “Le’s go!” The music shrilled out, the caller intoned the figures, the feet thudded on the platform.
A touring car drove to the entrance. The driver called, “Open up. We hear you got a riot.”
The guard kept his position. “We got no riot. Listen to that music. Who are you?”
“Deputy sheriffs.”
“Got a warrant?”