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Page 47
Gunhild thanked Ingmar for his story, but Gertrude walked on in
silence, as if she had become frightened. It was beginning to get
dark; everything that had looked so rosy a while ago was now either
blue or gray. Here and there in the forest could be seen a shiny
leaf that gleamed in the twilight like the red eye of a troll.
Gertrude was astonished at Ingmar having talked so much and so
long. He seemed like another person since coming in on home ground;
he carried his head higher than usual, and stepped with firmer
tread. Gertrude did not quite like this change in him; it made her
feel uneasy. All the same she spunked up, and began to tease Ingmar
about his going home to dance.
Then at last they came to a little gray hut. Candles were burning
inside, the windows being too small to let in much light. They
caught the sound of violin music and the clatter of dancing feet.
Still the girls paused, wonderingly. "Is it here?" they questioned.
"Can any one dance here? The place looks too small to hold even one
couple."
"Go along inside," said Gabriel; "the hut isn't as tiny as looks."
Outside the door, which was open, stood a group of boys and girls
who had danced themselves into a warm glow; the girls were fanning
themselves with their headshawls, and the boys had pulled off their
short black jackets in order to dance in their bright green red-sleeved
waistcoats.
The newcomers edged their way through the crowd by the door into
the hut. The first person they saw was Strong Ingmar--a little fat
man, with a big head and a long beard.
"He must be related to the elves and the trolls," thought Gertrude.
The old man was standing upon the hearth, playing his fiddle, so as
not to be in the way of the dancers.
The hut was larger than it had appeared from the outside, but it
looked poor and dilapidated. The bare pine walls were worm-eaten,
and the beams were blackened by smoke. There were no curtains at
the windows, and no cover on the table. It was evident that Strong
Ingmar lived by himself. His children had all left him and gone to
America, and the only pleasure the old man had in his loneliness
was to gather the young folks around him on a Saturday evening, and
let them dance to his fiddle.
It was dim in the hut, and suffocatingly close. Couple after couple
were whirling around in there. Gertrude could scarcely breathe, and
wanted to hurry out again, but it was an impossibility to get past
the tight wedge of humanity that blocked the doorway.
Strong Ingmar played with a sure stroke and in perfect time, but
the instant that young Ingmarsson came into the room he drew his
bow across the strings, making a rasping noise that brought all the
dancers to a stop. "It's nothing," he shouted. "Go on with the
dance!"
Ingmar placed his arm around Gertrude's waist to dance out the
figure. Gertrude seemed very much surprised at his wanting to
dance. But they could get nowhere, for the dancers followed each
other so closely that no one who had not been there at the start
could squeeze in between them.
The old man stopped short, rapped on the fender with his bow, and
said in a commanding voice: "Room must be made for Big Ingmar's son
when there's any dancing in my shack!"
With that every one turned to have a look at Ingmar, who became so
embarrassed that he could not stir. Gertrude had to take hold of
him and fairly drag him across the floor.
As soon as the dance was finished, the fiddler came down to greet
Ingmar. When he felt Ingmar's hand in his, the old man pretended to
be very much concerned, and instantly let go of it. "My goodness!"
he exclaimed, "be careful of those delicate schoolmaster hands! A
clumsy old fellow like me could easily crush them."
He took young Ingmar and his friends up to the table, driving away
several old women who were sitting there, looking on. Presently he
went over to the cupboard and brought out some bread and butter and
root beer.
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