When they arrived at the place appointed, they were received with great politeness—­their steeds were taken care of, and a dinner was provided them, after which they were ushered into the dancing-hall.

All the beauty of the neighboring precincts was assembled.  The ladies were for the most part white, or what passed for such, with an occasional dash of copper color.  There was no lack of bombazet gowns and large white pocket-handkerchiefs, perfumed with oil of cinnamon; and as they took their places in long rows on the puncheon floor, they were a merry and a happy company.

But the city gentlemen grew more and more gallant—­the girls more and more delighted with their attentions—­the country swains, alas! more and more scowling and jealous.  In vain they pigeon-winged and double-shuffled—­in vain they nearly dislocated hips and shoulders at “hoe corn and dig potatoes”—­they had the mortification to perceive that the smart young sprigs from Chicago had their “pick and choose” among their very sweethearts, and that they themselves were fairly danced off the ground.

The revelry lasted until daylight, and it was now time to think of returning.  There was no one ready with obliging politeness to bring them their horses from the stable.

“Poor fellows!” said one of the party, with a compassionate sort of laugh, “they could not stand it.  They have gone home to bed!”

“Serves them right,” said another; “they’d better not ask us down among their girls again!”

They groped their way to the stable and went in.  There were some animals standing at the manger, but evidently not their horses.  What could they be?  Had the rogues been trying to cheat them, by putting these strange nondescripts into their place?

They led them forth into the gray of the morning, and then—­such a trio as met their gaze!

There were the original bodies, it is true, but where were their manes and tails?  A scrubby, pickety ridge along the neck, and a bare stump projecting behind, were all that remained of the flowing honors with which they had come gallivanting down to “bear away the bell” at Hickory Creek, or, in the emphatic language of the country, “to take the rag off the bush.”

Gholson sat down on a log and cried outright.  Medard took the matter more philosophically—­the horse was none of his—­it was Lieutenant Foster’s.

Robert characteristically looked around to see whom he could knock down on the occasion; but there was no one visible on whom to wreak their vengeance.

The bumpkins had stolen away, and, in some safe, quiet nook, were snugly enjoying their triumph, and doubtless the deceitful fair ones were by this time at their sides, sharing their mirth and exultation.