"Perfectly great," said Peter, laying his arm on Pink's. "And I don't
see--"

Just here I slipped out onto the porch and sat down on the steps in the
starlight to get my breath while the tale of heroism went on from the
reassured hero.

And as I stood on the front steps, just out of the noise of "Too Much
Mustard" that had again begun its syncopated wail in the house, I began
to worry about all my flower children in the country. Sam had not been
in for three days, and he had sent word by one of his neighbors that he
couldn't get to the dance because he had to cup up potatoes to plant. He
had explained to Byrd and me all about how you cut out each little eye
with some potato around it for moisture and nourishment while it takes
root in the earth, and the Byrd had been especially interested in all
the potato-peels ever since. He had almost worn the life out of Mammy
begging her not to cut through any of the "little ones" with her knife
until she had taken to boiling them whole. And as I sat and pictured
them all sitting on the back porch with the big lamp lighted, just
cutting away, maybe Byrd still up for the emergency, the whole dance
seemed to put on a mask of grinning foolishness and resolve itself, with
its jiggy music, into a large bunch of nothing, with me included. I was
in a bad way for the best dancer in Hayesboro, not to sound like
boastful Billy.

"Well, hello! Can this be Betty the wall-flower?" called a voice from
over the fence. It was so out of sight that it might have come from the
hollow log out on Old Harpeth if it hadn't been so near. "Won't anybody
dance with you, honey-bunch?"