“No, sirree,” said young Joe now, in response to Billy’s rejoinder. “We didn’t have anything to do with that. And we didn’t put the lobster in the squire’s tall hat, either. ’Twas some chaps from down the island that did that. You know how they like the squire down there, Billy.” “Guess I know how some folks up here like him, too,” muttered Billy. Early that evening, the lights glimmering from the well-cleaned windows of the town hall shone out as so many beacons to guide the islanders from far and near. They came from up and down the island, rattling along the stony road in wagons that must have been built at some time or other—though nobody could remember when they were new. Moreover, whereas a boat must be painted often to keep it sound and at its best, the same does not apply to farm wagons. Hence, the conveyances that came bumping along up to the town hall shed were certainly not things of beauty. But each carried, nevertheless, its load of human happiness and merriment. There sprang out rosy-cheeked, buxom island girls and sturdy young fishermen, healthy, hearty, and full of life, eager for the first weird strains of Uncle Billy’s seven-dollar fiddle. He was soon in action, too. Seated on a high platform at the end of the hall, resining his bow, was Uncle Billy, smiling like a new moon upon the company. For the hall was used, likewise, by troupes of wandering theatrical companies; and, on this very stage where Uncle Billy was now seated, the villagers had gazed upon the woes of Little Eva and Uncle Tom, and had beheld Eliza Harris flee in terror, with a lumbering mastiff (supposed to be a bloodhound) tagging after her, crossing the little stage at two heavy bounds, and yelping behind the scenes, either from innate ferocity or at the sight of a long-withheld bone. Uncle Billy was off now in earnest, with a squeaking and a shrieking of the catgut. Captain Sam Curtis, his hair nicely “slicked,” and wearing a gorgeous new blue and red necktie, led the grand march as master of ceremonies, with Rob Dakin’s wife on his arm. Rob Dakin, escorting Mrs. Curtis, followed next. The squire was somewhere in line, leading a stately maiden sister of his wife. Billy Cook clattered along, with a laughing damsel from down the island. Henry Burns and George Warren, with comely partners, were also to be seen, entering heartily in the fun. At the end of the hall nearest the doorway stood a group of islanders who didn’t dance, or hadn’t partners at present. Included in these were the other two Warren boys and the most of the campers. Included, also, was young Harry Brackett, scowling enviously at a youth from the foot of the island, who led to the dance a certain black-haired, bright-eyed, trim little miss, who smiled at her escort sweetly as they promenaded past the entrance where Harry Brackett stood.