“Ladies and gintlemen,” he said in tones easily distinguishable at all parts of the room, “I’m pleased to meet ye all this evenin’.  Perhaps ye all know Battersleigh, and I hope ye’ll all meet me friend Captain Franklin, at me side.  We claim the inthroduction of this roof, me good friends, and we welcome everybody to the first dance at Ellisville.  Ladies, yer very dutiful servant!  It’s well ye’re lookin’, Mrs. McDermott; and Nora, gyurl, sure ye’re charmin’ the night.  Kittie, darlin’, how do ye do?  Do ye remember Captain Franklin, all of ye?  Pipe up, ye naygurs—­that’s right.  Now, thin, all hands, choose yer partners fer the gr-rand march.  Mrs. McDermott, darlin’, we’ll lead the march, sure, with Jerry’s permission—­how’ll he help himself, I wonder, if the lady says yis?  Thank ye, Mrs. McDermott, and me arm—­so.”

The sheepish figures of the musicians now leaned together for a moment.  The violins wailed in sad search for the accord, the assistant instrument less tentative.  All at once the slack shoulders straightened up firmly, confidently, and then, their feet beating in unison upon the floor, their faces set, stern and relentless, the three musicians fell to the work and reeled off the opening bars.

A sigh went up from the assembly.  There was a general shuffling of shoes, a wide rustling of calico.  Feet were thrust forward, the body yet unable to follow them in the wish of the owner.  Then, slowly, sadly, as though going to his doom, Curly arose from out the long line of the unhappy upon his side of the room.  He crossed the intervening space, his limbs below the knees curiously affected, jerking his feet into half time with the tune.  He bowed so low before the littlest waiter girl that his neck scarf fell forward from his chest and hung before him like a shield.  “May I hev the honour, Miss Kitty?” he choked out; and as the littlest waiter girl rose and took his arm with a vast air of unconcern, Curly drew a long breath.

In his seat Sam writhed, but could not rise.  Nora looked straight in front.  It was Hank Peterson, who led her forth, and who, after the occasion was over, wished he had not done so, for his wife sat till the last upon the row.  Seeing this awful thing happen, seeing the hand of Nora laid upon another’s arm, Sam sat up as one deeply smitten with a hurt.  Then, silently, unobserved in the confusion, he stole away from the fateful scene and betook himself to his stable, where he fell violently to currying one of the horses.

“Oh, kick!” he exclaimed, getting speech in these surroundings.  “Kick!  I deserve it.  Of all the low-down, d——­n cowards that ever was borned I sure am the worst!  But the gall of that feller Peterson!  An’ him a merried man!”