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Westerfelt by Will N. (William Nathaniel) Harben
page 44 of 258 (17%)

Westerfelt laughed. "Who's the young lady?" he asked.

"Harriet Floyd. Her mother keeps the hotel. They 'ain't been here so
mighty long; they're Tennessee folks."

"Sweethearts?"

"Don't know. He's 'er very shadder. I reckon she likes that sort of a
man; she's peculiar, anyway."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know, but she is." Jennie shrugged her shoulders. "She don't
git on with us. In a crowd o' girls she never has much to say; it
always seemed to me she was afraid somebody would find out some'n'
about 'er. She never mentions Tennessee. But she's a great favorite
with all the boys. They'd be a string o' 'em round 'er now, but they
don't want to make Toot mad."

"Right han' ter yo' pahtners," called out Uncle Mack, rapping on the
back of his fiddle with his bow. "Salute yo' pahtners; balance all!"
and the dance began. "Swing corners! Fust fo' for'ards, en back agin!"

"Faster, Unc' Mack!" cried Sarah Wambush, as she swung past the old
negro. "That hain't the right time!"

"Wait till he gets limbered up," cried Frank Hansard across to her.
"He hain't drawed a bow in two weeks, an' has been ploughin' a two-hoss
turnover."
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