When it ceased, he had danced his best. It was only when the applause
broke out that he knew he had fastened, from start to finish, on the man
by the fireplace a pair of eyes blazing with hate. The other had stared
back quietly, as if he noted only the performance. As the music ended
sharply with the click of Young Zeb's two heels, the stranger bent, took
up a pair of tongs, and rearranged the fire before lifting his head.

"Yes," he said, slowly, but in tones that were extremely distinct as the
clapping died away, "that was wonderfully danced. In some ways I should
almost say you were inspired. A slight want of airiness in the
double-shuffle, perhaps--"

"Could you do't better?" asked Zeb, sulkily.

"That isn't the fair way to treat criticism, my friend; but yes--oh,
yes, certainly I could do it better--in your shoes."

"Then try, i' my shoes." And Zeb kicked them off.

"I've a notion they'll fit me," was all the stranger answered, dropping
on one knee and beginning to unfasten the cumbrous boots he had borrowed
of Farmer Tresidder.

Indeed, the curious likeness in build of these two men--a likeness
accentuated, rather than slurred, by their contrast in colour and face,
was now seen to extend even to their feet. When the stranger stood up
at length in Zeb's shoes, they fitted him to a nicety, the broad steel
buckles lying comfortably over the instep, the back of the uppers
closing round the hollow of his ankle like a skin.