Young Zeb, by this, had crossed shoeless to the fireplace, and now stood
in the position lately occupied by his rival: only, whereas the stranger
had lolled easily, Zeb stood squarely, with his legs wide apart and his
hands deep in his pockets. He had no eyes for the intent faces around,
no ears for their whispering, nor for the preliminary scrape of the
instruments; but stood like an image, with the firelight flickering out
between his calves, and watched the other man grimly.

"Ready?" asked his father's voice. "Then one--two--three, an' let fly!"

The fiddle-bows hung for an instant on the first note, and in a
twinkling scampered along into "Randy my dandy." As the quick air
caught at the listeners' pulses, the stranger crossed his arms, drew his
right heel up along the inner side of his left ankle, and with a light
nod towards the chimney-place began.

To the casual eye there was for awhile little to choose between the two
dancers, the stranger's style being accurate, restrained, even a trifle
dull. But of all the onlookers, Zeb knew best what hornpipe-dancing
really was; and knew surely, after the first dozen steps, that he was
going to be mastered. So far, the performance was academic only. Zeb,
unacquainted with the word, recognised the fact, and was quite aware of
the inspiration--the personal gift--held in reserve to transfigure this
precise art in a minute or so, and give it life. He saw the force
gathering in the steady rhythmical twinkle of the steel buckles, and
heard it speak in the light recurrent tap with which the stranger's
heels kissed the floor. It was doubly bitter that he and his enemy
alone should know what was coming; trebly bitter that his enemy should
be aware that he knew.