Lord of the Dance
If you fancy a smack in the head with a walking stick, I would suggest coming to spend the night at Jack’s domicile. I awoke this morning once again to him beating me about the head and shoulders and railing about the latest injustice inflicted upon his person.
The topic of the day was how I had failed to take full advantage of my wealth and that if I “damn well want to be a gentleman, I better start acting like one.”
My failings in this department evidently centered on my inability to dance. Having placed first in the county fair at Cork no less than three times in my past I was quick to object, but Jack would have none of it. “If you want to look like a backwoods Irishman that is your own business, but to stay in my house you will have to learn how to act around your betters.” I cautiously reminded Jack that I was now in fact far richer than he, and that I resided in his house not on his sufferance, but so that he could “keep and eye on my frightful expenditures.”
What proceeded was the most agonizing three hours I have spent in quite a while. Jack forced me to take quarter turns with George until the poor fellow had to beg out due to both bruised shins and feet. Every misstep was met with a filthy oath from Jack as the self proclaimed “Master of Dance” claimed he had never had so poor a pupil. I was saved in the end by poor Patrick who wandered in the room at the most inopportune moment. Jack, in an attempt to demonstrate a particular of the Minuet, had found someone whose talent for rhythm was less blessed than mine, and I slunk out of the room to bathe my broken feet.