The Argosy, September 1915 — page 79: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ONE-CYLINDER SAM. for the Jones boy, who would not have been picked by the casual ob- server as an awkward person, had dis- played the appalling accomplishment of stepping on both her feet at the same time, and doing it with no ap- parent physical effort or acceleration of breath. : They were hurrying swiftly across the floor, Rosalind trying to decide whether Tom Witherbee danced like a frog or a rabbit, when somebody blew a shrill whistle. With an abrupt apology she found herself released by her partner. Then something horrible happened. She was a link in an endless chain of persons who had joined hands and were boisterously whirling in an un- dulating circle, like children playing ‘London Bridge.” Rosalind had heard of such things. In some places they called it the Paul Jones; in others it had equally unde- scriptive names. But by whatever term it was always the same; it meant changing partners every time a fiend blew a whistle—taking pot-luck with the crowd. Another shrill toot sounded. The men began weaving in and out to the right, the women to the left. Rosa- lind was driven onward remorselessly by the necessity of saving her heels from being stepped on. She did not look like a lady who -enjoyed being among the peasants and humble vil- lagers. Her jaw was set at too grim an angle. _ The whistle blew again at an in- stant when Rosalind’s left hand was grasped firmly by one knight of the white shirt-front, while her right had just been seized by another. The signal, she knew, meant another part- ner. She wavered; it seemed like a chance to escape. The captor of her left hand whirled about and stretched forth his arms. It was a fatal and short-sighted ma- neuver, for in doing so he released her fingers. Then with compelling force Rosalind found herself drawn 293 into a firm grip by the person who still retained her right’ hand. She was dancing again. It had happened so swiitly that her half-formed intention to flee from the dance was never carried into execu- tion. She was angry at herself, at Tom Witherbee, at the whole undig- nifed affair. And yet—this man could dance! She knew he was a stranger, although she had not even glanced above the second button on his shirt. Beyond doubt he was a vulgarian—one of the countless herd. But he could dance! For the moment her irritation gave way to surprise. She had not expect- ed this—after Morton and the Jones boy and Tom Witherbee. Here was a man who did not step on her feet, who did: not employ her as a ram to batter his way through the swinging crowd, who did not crush her in a bearlike embrace, and who did not persistently fall out of time with the music. He danced; he was neither a lag- gard nor a race-horse. He respected the functions of the band. ‘To Rosa- lind it was like being rescued from a trampling mob and expertly piloted into a path of ease and safety and perpetual rhythm. A common villager, perhaps; yet she yielded to the temptation. She also danced. And when Rosalind Chalmers really wanted to dance she was capable of attracting the eye and the envy of a Pavlowa. She was even conscious of a pang of regret that it would be so brief, for the fiend with the whistle would soon be playing his killjoy tune. But it was an oasis at least; one tiny, bright spot in a desert of clumsiness. Rosalind half-closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the sway of the music. She was almost enjoying her- self. He was not in her set, of course; yet there was a distinction about his dancing that seemed for the moment to lift him to that exalted plane. She dreaded the whistle; it meant = COPMICLOOOKS (E@)