260 MULE-HUNTING EXPEDITION. 
never-failing spring from which to draw fresh 
draughts of household knowledge. At last the 
cotillon was called by the master of the cere- 
monies, and again I heard—‘ Take your places, 
salute your partners;’ the fiddles started the 
same kind of jigging tune, and away we went. 
A cotillon is a compound, complicated kind of 
dance, evidently constructed from the elements 
and fragments of many other dances: a good deal 
of quadrille, a strong taste of lancers, a flavour 
of polka and waltz—the whole highly seasoned 
with Indian war-dance. You never stand still, 
neither can you lounge and talk soft nothings 
to your partner—it is real, bond fide, downright, 
honest dancing. I soon discovered why the men 
left off their jackets: a trained runner could not 
have stood it in clothing. My jacket and waist- 
coat soon hung on a peg, and, red-shirted like the 
rest, I footed it out gallantly. 
My partner was a gem, with the endurance of 
a ballet-girl in pantomime time. How many co- 
tillons we got through I never clearly remem- 
bered; but we danced on, till the grey morning 
light, stealing in through the windows, warned 
the revellers that Old Sol was creeping from 
behind the eastern hills, and that the day, with 
all its cares and toils, was near at hand once more. 
