The Dancer
Old S. once stopped me on the road to tell me how he and his wife had danced in their youth. " There was nobody like us," he said. " We was tireless. We danced everywhere, an' in them days dancin' wasn't jiggin' in a corner. We waltzed !" He did a few fantastic turns, his hob-nailed boots grating on the road. I kept a straight face as he held his imaginary partner. " Look see," he remarked with a dig of his elbow, " you might not think so, but I was as light on my feet as, as. . ." He sought for a suitable comparison: " As a spider on a well." After this fine effort he sucked his pipe, looked at me for approval and then went stumping down the road, far from light in his step now and looking more like an old thorn tree than ever. 1 began to think that he was on his way to becoming the oldest inhabitant, but I doubt it now, for they have whisked him off to hospital. Time has been creeping up on old S., and, although on occasion he held me in conversation like the Ancient Mariner when I was impatient to get home, 1 am sorry to think our encounters may be over, that I may not again hear his step in the darkness or be button-holed to listen to a story of his youth.
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