Louder and louder grew the music and the clatter of shoes and boots.
The air was filled with dust; old Mack's fiddle could hardly be heard
above his shouts and the laughter of the dancers. Luke and Mrs.
Bradley stood in the open door leading to the kitchen, both smiling.
Mrs. Bradley seemed pleased with the ease with which Westerfelt
appeared to be adapting himself to the company.

"Git the straws, Luke!" urged Frank Hansard, as the "grand chain"
brought him near Bradley. "Give it to us lively."

"I can't beat straws," said Luke.

Hearing this, old Mack uttered a contradictory guffaw, and shook his
gray wool in high amusement.

"Go on, Luke," said his wife, as she pushed him towards the fiddler;
"you kin, you know you kin."

Luke edged round between the dancers and the fire, and took two smooth
sour-wood sticks from Mack's coat-pocket. The old negro laughed and
sang all the louder as he held his head to one side and Luke began to
thrum the strings in time to the music.

"Whoo-ee!" shouted Frank, and the dance waxed faster and more noisy,
till the exhausted fiddler brought it to an end by crying out:

"Seat yo' pahtners."

Jennie sat down in a row of girls against the wall, and Mrs. Bradley