Annixter was about to go to her when he was interrupted by a cry.
Old Broderson, in the midst of a double shuffle, had clapped his hand to his side with a gasp, which he followed by a whoop of anguish.

He had got a stitch or had started a twinge somewhere.

With a gesture of resignation, he drew himself laboriously out of the dance, limping abominably, one leg dragging.

He was heard asking for his wife.

Old Mrs.
Broderson took him in charge.