e the tale of heroism went on from the
reassured hero.

And as I stood on the front steps, just out of the noise of "Too Much
Mustard" that had again begun its syncopated wail in the house, I began
to worry about all my flower children in the country. Sam had not been
in for three days, and he had sent word by one of his neighbors that he
couldn't get to the dance because he had to cup up potatoes to plant. He
had explained to Byrd and me all about how you cut out each little eye
with some potato around it for moisture and nourishment while it takes
root in the earth, and the Byrd had been especially interested in all
the potato-peels ever since. He had almost worn the life out of Mammy
begging her not to cut through any of the "little ones" with her knife
until she had taken to boiling them whole. And as I sat and pictured
them all sitting on the back porch with the big lamp lighted, just
cutting away, maybe Byrd still up for the emergency, the whole dance
seemed to put on a mask of grinning foolishness and resolve itself, with
its jiggy music, into a large bunch of nothing, with me included. I was
in a bad way for the best dancer in Hayesboro, not to sound like
boastful Billy.

"Well, hello! Can this be Betty the wall-flower?" called a voice from
over the fence. It was so out of sight that it might have come from the
hollow log out on Old Harpeth if it hadn't been so near. "Won't anybody
dance with you, honey-bunch?"

"Nobody; unless you will," I answered, running down toward the voice.
And as I came nearer the hedge I saw that a wagon and mule were drawn up
in the shadow behind a man. "It's fine for you to come in, after all,
Sam. Peter will be so happy."

"Overalls are not invited," answered Sam, as he gave my hair the usual
rough with his big horny hand while I reached up and grasped his sleeve,
too glad to see him to remonstrate. "I came in for Pete's things, and I
brought a load of new peas and ten dozen eggs at the same time, so I
couldn't dress for the dance, or have time to dance if I did. Six
seventy-five a barrel, and five barrels; how's that for wealth,
Bettykin?" As he spoke Sam reached down in his overalls pocket, brought
up a big fistful of all kinds of money, and poured it into my tunic of
embroidered mull that I held up for it.

"It is the most beautiful money I ever saw," I said, and I had to
swallow hard to keep out of my voice the sentiment I knew Sam would not
like. I knew how hard he had wor