The song finished, the men howled for more and stamped on the floor.

Nora sang again.
"We will now have a dance," announced Grace.

"You boys will please act natural, and for goodness sake don't step on our toes with those hob-nail boots.

Choose your partners." Not a jack moved.
"Help me haul 'em out, Tom," cried Hippy, yanking a big Canadian to the floor and standing him up beside Nora Wingate.

Tom did a similar service for another one, and in a few seconds five lumberjacks, red of face, shifting uneasily on their feet, were standing beside their partners on the dance floor.
"Hit it up, Mr.Fiddler," called Tom, whereupon the fiddler began sawing the strings of his violin and calling off for the dance, a square dance, and soon the crash of hob-nail boots on the board floor made the shack tremble, the fiddler beating time with his foot.
Had it not been that the Overland girls knew the dance they never could have followed the fiddler's calls.
"Shinny on the corners," "Gents all forw'd," "Sling yer pardner," "Up and down the travoy," "Dozey-dozey," "Smash 'em on the finish," was the way he called off, the latter call bringing the feet of the lumberjacks down in a series of bangs that threatened the collapse of the floor.
Outside, hovering over a little Indian fire, Willy Horse smoked stolidly, his ears attuned, not to the music and the shuffling feet, but to the sounds of nature, and to sounds that did not belong in nature's scheme of things.
"Let's have a waltz," cried Hippy exuberantly.
Grace shook her head.
"No waltzes," she answered.