As for young Harry Brackett, he would have been welcomed, also, and indeed had formerly taken part in the festivities. But, since his return from Boston and from some of the livelier summer resorts, he had referred to the island dances contemptuously as slow.
The campers usually went up to see the fun; and Henry Burns, who was a favourite about the island, and George Warren were usually to be seen among the dancers.
By far the most important functionary of all, however, was a quaint, little, grizzled old man, who was not a resident of the island, but lived six miles away, over across on the cape. Uncle Bill Peters, with his squeaking fiddle and well-resined bow, was, in fact, the whole orchestra. He was the one indispensable man of all. He had a tireless arm that had been known to scrape the wailing fiddle-strings from twilight to early morning on more than one occasion, inspiring the muse now and then with a little tobacco, which did not hinder him from calling off the numbers in a singsong, penetrating voice.
Early in the day, when a dance was arranged, it was the duty of some one to sail across to the cape and fetch Uncle Billy over, his arrival being the occasion for an ovation on the part of a selected committee.
Youre goin up to the dance, I see, remarked Rob Dakin to Billy Cook, one evening shortly following the adventures down in the Thoroughfare, just narrated.
Well, I reckon, answered Billy, reaching into a cracker-barrel and abstracting some odds and ends of hardtack.
It was easy enough for anybody to see, for Billys boots occupied a large part of the store doorway, as he seated himself in a chair, and crossed one leg over the other.
I just saw Uncle Bill Peters go by, continued Billy Cook. I should think hed be scared to fetch that ere fiddle clear across the bay here. Jeff Hackett says its one of the best fiddles this side er Portland. Cost seven dollars, I hear.
Just then a crowd of boys, including Henry Burns and Harvey, Tom and Bob and the Warrens, went by the door, coming up from shore, where they had been at work on the hull of the yacht Surprise .
Hello, Billy! cried young Joe, spying the biggest pair of boots of which the island boasted, filling up the doorway. Are you going up to the dance, Billy?
Yes, I be, responded Billy, rather abruptly.
Hooray! cried young Joe. So am I.
Well, I dont know as Im so overpowering anxious to have yer go, asserted Billy; at least, unless you mend your ways. You boys have got ter quit your cutting up dance nights, or therell be trouble.
Young Joe grinned.
I didnt fill up your boots, Billy, he said. Honour bright, I didnt.
He might have added that the reason why was because somebody else thought of it first.
Billy Cooks memory of the preceding dance was clouded by one sad incident. It seems that, by reason of his habit of going barefoot
at other times except funerals and dances, and of dispensing with the conventionality of socks when he did wear boots, it was a relief to Billy to step out-of-doors, once or twice during the evening, remove the cumbersome boots, and walk about for a few moments barefoot.
It fell out that, at the previous dance, after one of these moments of respite, Billy had returned to find his boots filled with water, and that young Joes deep sympathy had directed suspicion against him.
No, sirree, said young Joe now, in response to Billys rejoinder. We didnt have anything to do with that. And we didnt put the lobster in the squires tall hat, either. Twas some chaps from down the island that did that. You know how they like the squire down there, Billy.
Guess I know how some folks up here like him, too, muttered Billy.
Early that evening, the lights glimmering from the well-cleaned windows of the town hall shone out as so many beacons to guide the islanders from far and near. They came from up and down the island, rattling along the stony road in wagons that must have been built at some time or other though nobody could remember when they were new. Moreover, whereas a boat must be painted often to keep it sound and at its best, the same does not apply to farm wagons. Hence, the conveyances that came bumping along up to the town hall shed were certainly not things of beauty.
But each carried, nevertheless, its load of human happiness and merriment. There sprang out rosy-cheeked, buxom island girls and sturdy young fishermen, healthy, hearty, and full of life, eager for the first weird strains of Uncle Billys seven-dollar fiddle.
He was soon in action, too. Seated on a high platform at the end of the hall, resining his bow, was Uncle Billy, smiling like a new moon upon the company. For the hall was used, likewise, by troupes of wandering theatrical companies; and, on this very stage where Uncle Billy was now seated, the villagers had gazed upon the woes of Little Eva and Uncle Tom, and had beheld Eliza Harris flee in terror, with a lumbering mastiff (supposed to be a bloodhound) tagging after her, crossing the little stage at two heavy bounds, and yelping behind the scenes, either from innate ferocity or at the sight of a long-withheld bone.