'Tush, boys!' cried uncle, clapping his hands, 'now, by Jove, you shall
see a dance worth looking at!' And then it began--at least, I _think_
that it began here, but, as will presently appear, this is not quite
certain. It happened in this way:

The pianist struck up some national tune or other; uncle swung his arms
and shuffled a little with his feet, amorously ogling old Mrs. Knoph
over his spectacles.

All attention was now concentrated upon Uncle Ivar's legs; it was clear
that after the little preliminary steps he would let himself go! I stood
and wondered whether he would spring into the air clear over Mrs. Knoph,
or only kick the cap off her head.

That would have been quite like him, and it is not at all certain
whether he himself did not think of performing some such feat, for, as
will presently appear, we cannot know; it happened, you see, in this
way:

As Uncle Ivar, after some little pattering, collected his energies for
the decisive _coup_, he violently stamped his feet upon the floor.

But, as if he had trodden upon soft soap, like lightning his heels
glided forward from under him. The whole of Uncle Ivar fell backward
upon Constantinople, his legs beat the air, and the crown of his head
struck the floor with a boom that resounded through the whole house.

Yes, there he lay stretched in all his _rondeur_, with the square-sail
just in front of the feet of respectable Mrs. Knoph, who resembled a
deserted tower in the desert.