The forefinger on my left hand has
a stiff joint. I cut that off with an axe when she was dancing on
a beam close by. Though it was put on again by a clever surgeon
and kept on, I have never had the use of it since. But what did a
finger matter, or ten, when she was only there! Once I fell off the
roof when I must crane my neck to see her go around the corner. But
I hardly took note of those things, except to enlist her sympathy by
posing as a wounded hero with my arm in a sling at the dancing-school
which I had joined on purpose to dance with her. I was the biggest
boy there, and therefore first to choose a partner, and I remember
even now the snickering of the school when I went right over and
took Elizabeth. She flushed angrily, but I didn't care. That was
what I was there for, and I had her now. I didn't let her go again,
either, though the teacher delicately hinted that we were not a
good match. She was the best dancer in the school, and I was the
worst. Not a good match, hey! That was as much as she knew about
it.
It was at the ball that closed the dancing-school that I excited the
strong desire of the matrons to box my ears by ordering Elizabeth's
father off the floor when he tried to join in before midnight, the
time set for the elders to take charge.
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