We’d scarcely got started when the wind caught Frosty’s coat-tails and slapped them down along the flanks of his horse—­an incident that the horse met with stern disapproval.  He went straight up into the air, and then bucked as long as his wind held out, the while Frosty’s quirt kept time with the tails of his coat.

When the two had calmed down a bit, the other boys profited by Frosty’s experience, and tucked the coat-tails snugly under them—­and those who wore the Tuxedos congratulated themselves on their foresight.  We were a merry party, and we were willing to publish the fact.

When we had overtaken the others we were still merrier, for the spectacular contingent plumed themselves like peacocks on their fearsomeness, and guyed us conventionally garbed fellows unmercifully.

When the thirty of us filed into the long, barn-like hall where they were having the dance, I believe I can truthfully say that we created a sensation.  That “ripple of excitement” which we read about so often in connection with belles and balls went round the room.  Frosty and I led the way, and the rest of the “biscuit-shooter brigade,” as the others called us, followed two by two.  Then came the real Wild West show, with their hats tilted far back on their heads and brazen faces which it pained me to contemplate.  We arrived during that humming hash which comes just after a number, and every one stared impolitely, and some of them not overcordially.  I began to wonder if we hadn’t done a rather ill-bred thing, to hurl ourselves so unceremoniously into the merrymakings of the enemy; but I comforted myself with the thought that the dance was given as a public affair, so that we were acting within our technical rights—­though I own that, as I looked around upon our crowd, ranged solemnly along the wall, it struck me that we were a bit spectacular.

She was there, chatting with some other women, at the far end of the hall, and if she saw me enter the room she did not show any disquietude; from where I stood, she seemed perfectly at ease, and unconscious of anything unusual having occurred.  Old King I could not see.

A waltz was announced—­rather, bellowed—­and the boys drifted away from me.  It was evident that they did not intend to become wall flowers.  For myself, it occurred to me that, except my somewhat debatable acquaintance with Miss King, I did not know a woman in the room.  I called up all my courage and fortitude, and started toward her.  I was determined to ask her to dance, and I got some chilly comfort out of the reflection that she couldn’t do any worse than refuse; still, that would be quite bad enough, and I will not say that I crossed that room, with three or four hundred eyes upon me, in any oh-be-joyful frame of mind.  I rather suspect that my face resembled that plebeian and oft-mentioned vegetable, the beet.  I was within ten feet of her, and I was thinking that she couldn’t possibly hold that cool, unconscious look much longer, when a hand feminine was extended from the row of silent watchers and caught at my sleeve.