“Perfectly great,” said Peter, laying his arm on Pink’s.  “And I don’t see—­”

Just here I slipped out onto the porch and sat down on the steps in the starlight to get my breath while the tale of heroism went on from the reassured hero.

And as I stood on the front steps, just out of the noise of “Too Much Mustard” that had again begun its syncopated wail in the house, I began to worry about all my flower children in the country.  Sam had not been in for three days, and he had sent word by one of his neighbors that he couldn’t get to the dance because he had to cup up potatoes to plant.  He had explained to Byrd and me all about how you cut out each little eye with some potato around it for moisture and nourishment while it takes root in the earth, and the Byrd had been especially interested in all the potato-peels ever since.  He had almost worn the life out of Mammy begging her not to cut through any of the “little ones” with her knife until she had taken to boiling them whole.  And as I sat and pictured them all sitting on the back porch with the big lamp lighted, just cutting away, maybe Byrd still up for the emergency, the whole dance seemed to put on a mask of grinning foolishness and resolve itself, with its jiggy music, into a large bunch of nothing, with me included.  I was in a bad way for the best dancer in Hayesboro, not to sound like boastful Billy.

“Well, hello!  Can this be Betty the wall-flower?” called a voice from over the fence.  It was so out of sight that it might have come from the hollow log out on Old Harpeth if it hadn’t been so near.  “Won’t anybody dance with you, honey-bunch?”

“Nobody; unless you will,” I answered, running down toward the voice.  And as I came nearer the hedge I saw that a wagon and mule were drawn up in the shadow behind a man.  “It’s fine for you to come in, after all, Sam.  Peter will be so happy.”

“Overalls are not invited,” answered Sam, as he gave my hair the usual rough with his big horny hand while I reached up and grasped his sleeve, too glad to see him to remonstrate.  “I came in for Pete’s things, and I brought a load of new peas and ten dozen eggs at the same time, so I couldn’t dress for the dance, or have time to dance if I did.  Six seventy-five a barrel, and five barrels; how’s that for wealth, Bettykin?” As he spoke Sam reached down in his overalls pocket, brought up a big fistful of all kinds of money, and poured it into my tunic of embroidered mull that I held up for it.

“It is the most beautiful money I ever saw,” I said, and I had to swallow hard to keep out of my voice the sentiment I knew Sam would not like.  I knew how hard he had worked for every cent of it.

“I’ll give you that bright new quarter if you think it is so pretty,” he said, and of course it couldn’t have been emotion that cut his voice off so indistinctly.

“Come on, then, and let me dance for it,” I answered.  Then myself and money and mull dress,—­that came all the way from New York with a three-figured bill—­I threw into the blue-jeans arms.  And out on the smooth, hard turnpike Sam and I had one glorious fox-trot with only the surprised mule looking on.