Fresh boxes of cigars were opened; the seventh bowl of fertiliser was mixed.Osterman poured the dregs of a glass of it upon his bald head, declaring that he could feel the hair beginning to grow.
But suddenly old Broderson rose to his feet.
"Aha," he cackled, "I'M going to have a dance, I am.Think I'm too old? I'll show you young fellows.I'm a regular old ROOSTERwhen I get started."
He marched out into the barn, the others following, holding their sides.He found an aged Mexican woman by the door and hustled her, all confused and giggling, into the Virginia reel, then at its height.Every one crowded around to see.Old Broderson stepped off with the alacrity of a colt, snapping his fingers, slapping his thigh, his mouth widening in an excited grin.The entire company of the guests shouted.The City Band redoubled their efforts; and the old man, losing his head, breathless, gasping, dislocated his stiff joints in his efforts.He became possessed, bowing, scraping, advancing, retreating, wagging his beard, cutting pigeons' wings, distraught with the music, the clamour, the applause, the effects of the fertiliser.
Annixter shouted:
"Nice eye, Santa Claus."
But Annixter's attention wandered.He searched for Hilma Tree, having still in mind the look in her eyes at that swift moment of danger.He had not seen her since then.At last he caught sight of her.She was not dancing, but, instead, was sitting with her "partner" at the end of the barn near her father and mother, her eyes wide, a serious expression on her face, her thoughts, no doubt, elsewhere.Annixter was about to go to her when he was interrupted by a cry.
Old Broderson, in the midst of a double shuffle, had clapped his hand to his side with a gasp, which he followed by a whoop of anguish.He had got a stitch or had started a twinge somewhere.
With a gesture of resignation, he drew himself laboriously out of the dance, limping abominably, one leg dragging.He was heard asking for his wife.Old Mrs.Broderson took him in charge.She jawed him for making an exhibition of himself, scolding as though he were a ten-year-old.
"Well, I want to know!" she exclaimed, as he hobbled off, dejected and melancholy, leaning upon her arm, "thought he had to dance, indeed! What next?A gay old grandpa, this.He'd better be thinking of his coffin."It was almost midnight.The dance drew towards its close in a storm of jubilation.The perspiring musicians toiled like galley slaves; the guests singing as they danced.
The group of men reassembled in the harness room.Even Magnus Derrick condescended to enter and drink a toast.Presley and Vanamee, still holding themselves aloof, looked on, Vanamee more and more disgusted.Dabney, standing to one side, overlooked and forgotten, continued to sip steadily at his glass, solemn, reserved.Garnett of the Ruby rancho, Keast from the ranch of the same name, Gethings of the San Pablo, and Chattern of the Bonanza, leaned back in their chairs, their waist-coats unbuttoned, their legs spread wide, laughing--they could not tell why.Other ranchers, men whom Annixter had never seen, appeared in the room, wheat growers from places as far distant as Goshen and Pixley; young men and old, proprietors of veritable principalities, hundreds of thousands of acres of wheat lands, a dozen of them, a score of them; men who were strangers to each other, but who made it a point to shake hands with Magnus Derrick, the "prominent man" of the valley.Old Broderson, whom every one had believed had gone home, returned, though much sobered, and took his place, refusing, however, to drink another spoonful.
Soon the entire number of Annixter's guests found themselves in two companies, the dancers on the floor of the barn, frolicking through the last figures of the Virginia reel and the boisterous gathering of men in the harness room, downing the last quarts of fertiliser.Both assemblies had been increased.Even the older people had joined in the dance, while nearly every one of the men who did not dance had found their way into the harness room.The two groups rivalled each other in their noise.Out on the floor of the barn was a very whirlwind of gayety, a tempest of laughter, hand-clapping and cries of amusement.In the harness room the confused shouting and singing, the stamping of heavy feet, set a quivering reverberation in the oil of the kerosene lamps, the flame of the candles in the Japanese lanterns flaring and swaying in the gusts of hilarity.At intervals, between the two, one heard the music, the wailing of the violins, the vigorous snarling of the cornet, and the harsh, incessant rasping of the snare drum.
And at times all these various sounds mingled in a single vague note, huge, clamorous, that rose up into the night from the colossal, reverberating compass of the barn and sent its echoes far off across the unbroken levels of the surrounding ranches, stretching out to infinity under the clouded sky, calm, mysterious, still.
Annixter, the punch bowl clasped in his arms, was pouring out the last spoonful of liquor into Caraher's glass when he was aware that some one was pulling at the sleeve of his coat.He set down the punch bowl.
"Well, where did YOU come from?" he demanded.
It was a messenger from Bonneville, the uniformed boy that the telephone company employed to carry messages.He had just arrived from town on his bicycle, out of breath and panting.
"Message for you, sir.Will you sign?"
He held the book to Annixter, who signed the receipt, wondering.
The boy departed, leaving a thick envelope of yellow paper in Annixter's hands, the address typewritten, the word "Urgent"written in blue pencil in one corner.
Annixter tore it open.The envelope contained other sealed envelopes, some eight or ten of them, addressed to Magnus Derrick, Osterman, Broderson, Garnett, Keast, Gethings, Chattern, Dabney, and to Annixter himself.
Still puzzled, Annixter distributed the envelopes, muttering to himself:
"What's up now?"
