By three o’clock, however, joy at Mike’s Place had become beyond question unconfined, and the tokens of it were audible for a long distance in all directions.  If, however, there is no sound where no ear hears, silence rested upon the country-side until an hour later.  Then a lonely figure came shivering from the direction of the town, not by the road, but slinking through the snow upon the frozen river.  It came slowly, as though very tired, and cautiously, too, often turning its head to look behind.  Finally it reached the pier, and stopped as if to listen.

Within the house above, a piano of evil life was being beaten to death for its sins and clamoring its last cries horribly.  The old shed rattled in every part with the thud of many heavy feet, and trembled with the shock of noise—­an incessant roar of men’s voices, punctuated with women’s screams.  Then the riot quieted somewhat; there was a clapping of hands, and a violin began to squeak measures intended to be Oriental.  The next moment the listener scrambled up one of the rotting piles and stood upon the veranda.  A shaft of red light through a broken shutter struck across the figure above the shoulders, revealing a bloody handkerchief clumsily knotted about the head, and, beneath it, the face of Joe Louden.

He went to the broken shutter and looked in.  Around the blackened walls of the room stood a bleared mob, applausively watching, through a fog of smoke, the contortions of an old woman in a red calico wrapper, who was dancing in the centre of the floor.  The fiddler—­a rubicund person evidently not suffering from any great depression of spirit through the circumstance of being “out on bail,” as he was, to Joe’s intimate knowledge—­ sat astride a barrel, resting his instrument upon the foamy tap thereof, and playing somewhat after the manner of a ’cellist; in no wise incommoded by the fact that a tall man (known to a few friends as an expert in the porch-climbing line) was sleeping on his shoulder, while another gentleman (who had prevented many cases of typhoid by removing old plumbing from houses) lay on the floor at the musician’s feet and endeavored to assist him by plucking the strings of the fiddle.

Joe opened the door and went in.  All of the merry company (who were able) turned sharply toward the door as it opened; then, recognizing the new-comer, turned again to watch the old woman.  One or two nearest the door asked the boy, without great curiosity, what had happened to his head.  He merely shook it faintly in reply, and crossed the room to an open hallway beyond.  At the end of this he came to a frowzy bedroom, the door of which stood ajar.  Seated at a deal table, and working by a dim lamp with a broken chimney, a close-cropped, red-bearded, red-haired man in his shirt-sleeves was jabbing gloomily at a column of figures scrawled in a dirty ledger.  He looked up as Joe appeared in the doorway, and his eyes showed a slight surprise.