Then, lifting one huge foot, he put the fiddle under his chin, and, raising his bow till his knuckles touched the strings, he yelled, “Already, G’lang!” and brought his foot down with a startling bang on the first note. Rye doodle doo, doodle doo.

As he went on and the dancers fell into rhythm, the clatter of heavy boots seemed to thrill him with old-time memories, and he kept boisterous time with his foot while his high, rasping nasal rang high above the confusion of tongues and heels and swaying forms.

“Ladies’ gran’ change! Four hands round! Bal-ance all! Elly-man left! Back to play-cis.”

His eyes closed in a sort of intoxication of pleasure, but he saw all that went on in some miraculous way.

“First lady lead to the right — toodle rum rum! Gent foller after (step along thar)! Pour hands round”

The boys were immensely pleased with him. They delighted in his antics rather than in his tunes, which were exceedingly. few and simple. They seemed never to be able to get enough of one tune which he called “Honest John,” and which he played in his own way, accompanied by a chant which he meant, without doubt, to be musical.

“Hon-ers tew your pardners — tee teedle deedle dee dee dee dee! Stand up straight an’ put on your style! Right an’ left four”

The hat was passed by the floor-manager during the evening, and Daddy got nearly three dollars, which delighted Milton very much.

At supper he insisted on his prerogative, which was to take the prettiest girl out to supper.

“Look-a-here, Daddy, ain’t that crowdin’ the mourners?” objected the others.

“What do you mean by that, sir? No, sir! Always done it, in Michigan and Yark State both; yes, sir.”

He put on his coat ceremoniously, while the tittering girls stood about the room waiting. He did not delay. His keen eyes had made selection long before, and, approaching Rose Watson with old-fashioned, elaborate gallantry, he said: “May I have the pleasure ?” and marched out triumphantly, amidst shouts of laughter.

His shrill laugh rang high above the rest at the table, as he said: “I’m the youngest man in this crowd, sir! Demmit, I bet a hat I c’n dance down any man in this crowd; yes, sir. The old man can do it yet.”

They all took sides in order to please him.

“I’ll bet he can,” said Hugh McTurg; “I’ll bet a dollar on Daddy.”

“I’ll take the bet,” said Joe Randall, and with great noise the match was arranged to come the first thing after supper.

“All right, sir; any time, sir. I’ll let you know the old man is on earth yet.”

While the girls were putting away the supper dishes, the young man lured Daddy out into the yard for a wrestling-match, but some of the others objected.

“Oh, now, that won’t do! If Daddy was a young man”

“What do you mean, sir? I am young enough for you, sir. Just let me get ahold o’you, sir, and I’ll show yon, you young rascal ! you dem jackanapes!” he ended, almost shrieking with rage, as he shook his fist in the face of his grinning tormentors.

The others held him back with much apparent alarm, and ordered the other fellows away.

“There, there, Daddy, I wouldn’t mind him! I wouldn’t dirty my hands on him; he ain’t worth it. Just come inside, and we’ll have that dancingmatch now.”

Daddy reluctantly returned to the house, and, having surrendered his violin to Hugh McTurg, was ready for the contest. As he stepped into the middle of the room he was not altogether ludicrous. His rusty trousers were bagged at the knee, and his red woolen stockings showed between the tops of his moccasins and his pantaloon-legs; and his coat, utterly characterless as to color and cut, added to the stoop in his shoulders, and yet there was a rude sort of grace and a certain dignity about his bearing which kept down laughter. They were to have a square dance of the old-fashioned sort.

“Farrm on,” he cried, and the fiddler struck out the first note of the Virginia Reel. Daddy led out Rose, and the dance began. He straightened up till his tall form towered above the rest of the boys like a weather-beaten pine-tree, as he balanced and swung and led and called off the changes with a voice full of imperious command.

The fiddler took a malicious delight toward the last in quickening the time of the good old dance, and that put the old man on his mettle.

“Go it, ye young rascal!” he yelled. He danced like a boy and yelled like a demon, catching a laggard here and there, and hurling them into place like tops, while he kicked and stamped, wound in and out and waved his hands in the air with a gesture which must have dated back to the days of Washington. At last, flushed, breathless, but triumphant, he danced a final break-down to the tune of “Leather Breeches,” to show he was unsubdued.