“I’m too old for it, Grampa. You and Bridie. She’s dying to dance, aren’t you, Bridie? Look at the way she’s tapping that foot!”

Stricken, he looked at Bridie. Too late. Bridie’s left hand touched his shoulder, her right hand grasped his left. “Let’s give it a waltz, Thor. For old time’s sake. I’ve waltzed in my day to a jig tune. Once around and we’ll quit or I’ll be dead on my feet.” In a sort of stately court minuet they moved off into the maelstrom.

As they moved precariously away, “I’ll see you at the house!” Chris called. For the first time in her orphaned life she felt terribly alone. She ran down the road in the brilliant sunlit night. There were people all about, as they passed her the gentle friendly faces, the laughing eyes flashed in greeting. Hi! they said. Men women children. Hi! Savoring this brief cold bright handful of days and nights that was their summer.

But the Rest House, when she reached it, resounded with the imprecations of Ernie. A verbal torrent of obscenity, profanity, of wild raging against the world, against his wife, his life, his job. The woman’s placating weary murmur was the twanging of a loose wire in a thunderstorm.

“Oh, no!” Christine said to herself, aloud. She walked the length of the hall as noisily as possible, coming down hard on her heels. Was no one interested in sleep in all this honeycomb of tiny bedrooms? Her own room was bright as day, but a lifetime of Baranof summers had accustomed her to this. The window was fastened and nailed tight against the cold. She was used to that, too. A yellow window shade, futile against the sun. Oh, well. Hastily she scrawled a note and pinned it on Bridie’s door. Good night Bridie dear simply bushed see you morning Chris. She dashed to the lavatory and back to her room, she shut her door just as Bridie and Thor returned, she stood very quiet, visualizing their startled faces as they entered the bare little front office to a blast of profanity and howled complaint. As the ravings ceased for a moment Chris could plainly hear Bridie’s high crisp tones and Thor’s less distinct and soothing murmur.

“Well, somebody’s got to stop him, the way he’s yelling like a banshee.”

“He’ll fall asleep, he must be exhausted by now.”

“I don’t know whether he is, but I sure am. Isn’t somebody in charge here?”

“No. Not till morning.”

The shouts of anger and protest rose again, died away, the wife’s tearful murmur trickled through the torrent.

“Ain’t you going to do a thing about stopping him?”

“No.”

“Then I will. This keeps on I’m going to knock at the door, I’ve got some sleeping pills with me, if she can get a couple of those down his big mouth while it’s open yelling, and slosh some more of that beer into him, he’ll be cooked.”

“Not a bad idea, Bridie. Two for him and one for you, and you’ll be set until morning. Good night, my dear. And thanks for the waltz.”