As the music ended sharply with the click of Young Zeb's two heels, the stranger bent, took up a pair of tongs, and rearranged the fire before lifting his head.
"Yes," he said, slowly, but in tones that were extremely distinct as the clapping died away, "that was wonderfully danced.

In some ways I should almost say you were inspired.

A slight want of airiness in the double-shuffle, perhaps--" "Could you do't better ?" asked Zeb, sulkily.
"That isn't the fair way to treat criticism, my friend; but yes--oh, yes, certainly I could do it better--in your shoes." "Then try, i' my shoes." And Zeb kicked them off.
"I've a notion they'll fit me," was all the stranger answered, dropping on one knee and beginning to unfasten the cumbrous boots he had borrowed of Farmer Tresidder.
Indeed, the curious likeness in build of these two men--a likeness accentuated, rather than slurred, by their contrast in colour and face, was now seen to extend even to their feet.

When the stranger stood up at length in Zeb's shoes, they fitted him to a nicety, the broad steel buckles lying comfortably over the instep, the back of the uppers closing round the hollow of his ankle like a skin.
Young Zeb, by this, had crossed shoeless to the fireplace, and now stood in the position lately occupied by his rival: only, whereas the stranger had lolled easily, Zeb stood squarely, with his legs wide apart and his hands deep in his pockets.

He had no eyes for the intent faces around, no ears for their whispering, nor for the preliminary scrape of the instruments; but stood like an image, with the firelight flickering out between his calves, and watched the other man grimly.
"Ready ?" asked his father's voice.