“Joe, you got to give me anyway ONE da--” “Look!” said Mr. Bullitt, eagerly. “Look sittin' yonder, over under that tree all by herself! That's a visiting girl named Miss Boke; she's visiting some old uncle or something she's got livin' here, and I bet you could--” “Joe, you GOT to--” “I bet that Miss Boke's a good dancer, Bill,” Joe continued, warmly. “May Parcher says so. She was tryin' to get me to dance with her myself, but I couldn't, or I would of. Honest, Bill, I would of! Bill, if I was you I'd sail right in there before anybody else got a start, and I'd--” “Ole man,” said William, gently, “you remember the time Miss Pratt and I had an engagement to go walkin', and you wouldn't of seen her for a week on account of your aunt dyin' in Kansas City, if I hadn't let you go along with us? Ole man, if you--” But the music sounded for the next dance, and Joe felt that it was indeed time to end this uncomfortable conversation. “I got to go, Bill,” he said. “I GOT to!” “Wait just one minute,” William implored. “I want to say just this: if--” “Here!” exclaimed Mr. Bullitt. “I got to GO!” “I know it. That's why--” Heedless of remonstrance, Joe wrenched himself free, for it would have taken a powerful and ruthless man to detain him longer. “What you take me for?” he demanded, indignantly. “I got this with Miss PRATT!” And evading a hand which still sought to clutch him, he departed hotly. ... Mr. Parcher's voice expressed wonder, a little later, as he recommended his wife to turn her gaze in the direction of “that Baxter boy” again. “Just look at him!” said Mr. Parcher. “His face has got more genuine idiocy in it than I've seen around here yet, and God knows I've been seeing some miracles in that line this summer!” “He's looking at Lola Pratt,” said Mrs. Parcher. “Don't you suppose I can see that?” Mr. Parcher returned, with some irritation. “That's what's the trouble with him. Why don't he QUIT looking at her?” “I think probably he feels badly because she's dancing with one of the other boys,” said his wife, mildly. “Then why can't he dance with somebody else himself?” Mr. Parcher inquired, testily. “Instead of standing around like a calf looking out of the butcher's wagon! By George! he looks as if he was just going to MOO!” “Of course he ought to be dancing with somebody,” Mrs. Parcher remarked, thoughtfully. “There are one or two more girls than boys here, and he's the only boy not dancing. I believe I'll--” And, not stopping to complete the sentence, she rose and walked across the interval of grass to William. “Good evening, William,” she said, pleasantly. “Don't you want to dance?”