All the children were leaving their chairs and moving
toward the dancing-rooms; the orchestra was playing dance-music
again.
"Come on, Penrod!" Marjorie cried. "Let's go dance this together.
Come on!"
With seeming reluctance, he suffered her to lead him away. "Well,
I'll go with you; but I won't dance," he said "I wouldn't dance
with the President of the United States"
"Why, Penrod?"
"Well--because well, I won't DO it!"
"All right. I don't care. I guess I've danced plenty, anyhow.
Let's go in here." She led him into a room too small for dancing,
used ordinarily by Miss Amy Rennsdale's father as his study, and
now vacant. For a while there was silence; but finally Marjorie
pointed to the window and said shyly:
"Look, Penrod, it's getting dark. The party'll be over pretty
soon, and you've never danced one single time!"
"Well, I guess I know that, don't I?"
He was unable to cast aside his outward truculence though it was
but a relic. However, his voice was gentler, and Marjorie seemed
satisfied. From the other rooms came the swinging music, shouts
of "Gotcher bumpus!" sounds of stumbling, of scrambling, of
running, of muffled concus signs and squeals of dismay.
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