Every drop of blood in his body
cried to him 'Dance!' He could resist no longer.
'Shall we?' he said.
Bill should not have danced. He was an estimable young man,
honest, amiable, with high ideals. He had played an excellent game
of football at the university; his golf handicap was plus two; and
he was no mean performer with the gloves. But we all of us have
our limitations, and Bill had his. He was not a good dancer. He
was energetic, but he required more elbow room than the ordinary
dancing floor provides. As a dancer, in fact, he closely resembled
a Newfoundland puppy trying to run across a field.
It takes a good deal to daunt the New York dancing man, but the
invasion of the floor by Bill and the Good Sport undoubtedly
caused a profound and even painful sensation. Linked together they
formed a living projectile which might well have intimidated the
bravest. Nutty was their first victim. They caught him in
mid-step--one of those fancy steps which he was just beginning to
exhume from the cobwebbed recesses of his memory--and swept him
away. After which they descended resistlessly upon a stout
gentleman of middle age, chiefly conspicuous for the glittering
diamonds which he wore and the stoical manner in which he danced
to and fro on one spot of not more than a few inches in size in
the exact centre of the room.
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