The newcomers edged their way through the crowd by the door into the hut.  The first person they saw was Strong Ingmar—­a little fat man, with a big head and a long beard.

“He must be related to the elves and the trolls,” thought Gertrude.  The old man was standing upon the hearth, playing his fiddle, so as not to be in the way of the dancers.

The hut was larger than it had appeared from the outside, but it looked poor and dilapidated.  The bare pine walls were worm-eaten, and the beams were blackened by smoke.  There were no curtains at the windows, and no cover on the table.  It was evident that Strong Ingmar lived by himself.  His children had all left him and gone to America, and the only pleasure the old man had in his loneliness was to gather the young folks around him on a Saturday evening, and let them dance to his fiddle.

It was dim in the hut, and suffocatingly close.  Couple after couple were whirling around in there.  Gertrude could scarcely breathe, and wanted to hurry out again, but it was an impossibility to get past the tight wedge of humanity that blocked the doorway.

Strong Ingmar played with a sure stroke and in perfect time, but the instant that young Ingmarsson came into the room he drew his bow across the strings, making a rasping noise that brought all the dancers to a stop.  “It’s nothing,” he shouted.  “Go on with the dance!”

Ingmar placed his arm around Gertrude’s waist to dance out the figure.  Gertrude seemed very much surprised at his wanting to dance.  But they could get nowhere, for the dancers followed each other so closely that no one who had not been there at the start could squeeze in between them.

The old man stopped short, rapped on the fender with his bow, and said in a commanding voice:  “Room must be made for Big Ingmar’s son when there’s any dancing in my shack!”

With that every one turned to have a look at Ingmar, who became so embarrassed that he could not stir.  Gertrude had to take hold of him and fairly drag him across the floor.

As soon as the dance was finished, the fiddler came down to greet Ingmar.  When he felt Ingmar’s hand in his, the old man pretended to be very much concerned, and instantly let go of it.  “My goodness!” he exclaimed, “be careful of those delicate schoolmaster hands!  A clumsy old fellow like me could easily crush them.”

He took young Ingmar and his friends up to the table, driving away several old women who were sitting there, looking on.  Presently he went over to the cupboard and brought out some bread and butter and root beer.

“I don’t, as a rule, offer refreshments at these affairs,” he said.  “The others have to be content with just music and dancing, but Ingmar Ingmarsson must have a bite to eat under my roof.”

Drawing up a little three-legged stool, the old man sat down in front of Ingmar, and looked sharply at him.

“So you’re going to be a school-teacher, eh?” he queried.