“My blessid!” cried Sennacherib, “I niver see such a man!”
“Well, well!” said the 'cello-player, “here's a bit. You seem to ha' forgot your own.”
“What's that got to do wi' it?” Sennacherib demanded. “I shall live to learn as two blacks mek a white by-an'-by, I reckon. There niver was a party o' four but there was three wooden heads among 'em.” The girl glanced over her arm, and looked with dancing eyes at the youngest of the party. He, feeling Sennacherib's eye upon him, contrived to keep a grave face. The host gave the word and the four set to work, Reuben playing with genuine fire, and his companions sawing away with a dogged precision which made them agreeable enough to listen to, but droll to look at. Ruth, with her chin upon her dimpled arm, watched Reuben as he played. He had tossed back his chestnut mane of hair rather proudly as he tucked his violin beneath his chin, and had looked round on his three seniors with the air of a master as he held his bow poised in readiness to descend upon the strings. His short upper lip and full lower lip came together firmly, his brows straightened, and his nostrils contracted a little. Ruth admired him demurely, and he gave her ample opportunity, for this time he kept his eyes upon the text. She watched him to the last stroke of the bow, and then, shifting her glance, met the grave, fixed look of the old man who stood behind his chair. At this, conscious of the fashion in which her last five minutes had been passed, she blushed, and to carry this off with as good a grace as might be, she began to applaud with both hands.
“Bravo, father! bravo! Capital, Mr. Eld! capital!”
“Theer,” said Sennacherib, ignoring the compliment, and scowling in a sort of dogged triumph at the placid old man behind Reuben's chair, “d'ye think as that could be beat if we spent forty 'ear at it? Theer wa'n't a fause note from start to finish, and time was kep' like a clock.”
“It's a warmish bit o' work, that hallygro,” said old Fuller, in milder self-gratulation, as he disposed his 'cello between his knees, and mopped his bald forehead. “A warmish bit o' work it is.”
“Come, now,” said Sennacherib, “d'ye think as it could be beat? A civil answer to a civil question is no more than a beggar's rights, and no less than a king's obligingness.”
“It was wonderful well played, Mr. Eld,” the old man answered.
“Beat!” said Isaiah. “Why it stands to natur' as it could be beat. D'ye think Paganyni couldn't play a better second fiddle than I can?”
“Ought to play second fiddle pretty well thyself,” returned Sennacherib. “Hast been at it all thy life. Ever since thee was married, annyway.”