and
turned out to be right good dancers, after all. It seems to me we're
kind of workin' against each other. I'll tell you--you kind of let me
do the guiding and I'll get you going fine. Now! ONE, two, ONE, two!
There!"

William ceased to struggle for dominance, and their efforts to "get
started" were at once successful. With a muscular power that was
surprising, Miss Boke bore him out into the circling current, swung
him round and round, walked him backward half across the platform, then
swung him round and round and round again. For a girl, she "guided"
remarkably well; nevertheless, a series of collisions, varying in
intensity, marked the path of the pair upon the rather crowded platform.
In such emergencies Miss Boke proved herself deft in swinging William
to act as a buffer, and he several times found himself heavily stricken
from the rear; anon his face would be pressed suffocatingly into Miss
Boke's hair, without the slightest wish on his part for such intimacy.
He had a helpless feeling, fully warranted by the circumstances. Also,
he soon became aware that Miss Boke's powerful "guiding" was observed
by the public; for, after one collision, more severe than others, a low
voice hissed in his ear:

"SHE WON'T HURT YOU MUCH, SILLY BILL. SHE'S ONLY IN FUN!"

This voice belonged to the dancer with whom he had just been in painful
contact, Johnnie Watson. However, Johnnie had whirled far upon another
orbit before William found a retort, and then it was a feeble one.

"I wish YOU'D try a few dances with her!" he whispered, inaudibly, but
with unprecedented bitterness, as the masterly arm of his partner just
saved him from going over the edge of the platform. "I bet she'd kill
you!"

More than once he tried to assert himself and resume his natural place
as guide, but each time he did so he immediately got out of step with
his partner, their knees collided embarrassingly, they staggered and
walked upon each other's insteps--and William was forced to abandon the
unequal contest.

"I just love dancing," said Miss Boke, serenely. "Don't you, Mr.
Baxter?"

"What?" he gulped. "Yeh."

"It's a beautiful floor for dancing, isn't it?"

"Yeh."

"I just love dancing," Miss Boke thought proper to declare again. "Don't
you love it, Mr. Baxter?"

This time he considered his enthusiasm to be sufficiently indicated by a
nod. He needed all his breath.

"It's lovely," she murmured. "I hope they don't play 'Home, Sweet
Ho