They'd be a string o' 'em round 'er now, but they
don't want to make Toot mad."
"Right han' ter yo' pahtners," called out Uncle Mack, rapping on the
back of his fiddle with his bow. "Salute yo' pahtners; balance all!"
and the dance began. "Swing corners! Fust fo' for'ards, en back agin!"
"Faster, Unc' Mack!" cried Sarah Wambush, as she swung past the old
negro. "That hain't the right time!"
"Wait till he gets limbered up," cried Frank Hansard across to her.
"He hain't drawed a bow in two weeks, an' has been ploughin' a two-hoss
turnover."
Louder and louder grew the music and the clatter of shoes and boots.
The air was filled with dust; old Mack's fiddle could hardly be heard
above his shouts and the laughter of the dancers. Luke and Mrs.
Bradley stood in the open door leading to the kitchen, both smiling.
Mrs. Bradley seemed pleased with the ease with which Westerfelt
appeared to be adapting himself to the company.
"Git the straws, Luke!" urged Frank Hansard, as the "grand chain"
brought him near Bradley. "Give it to us lively."
"I can't beat straws," said Luke.
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