“Come, come, come,” said the fat 'cello-player. “Harmony, lads, harmony! How was it, Mr. Gold, as you come to give up the music. Theer's them as is entitled to speak, and has lived i' the parish longer than I have, as holds you up to have been a real noble player.”
“There's them,” the old man answered, “as would think the parish church the finest buildin' i' the king-dom. But they wouldn't be them as had seen the glories of Lichfield cathedral.”
“I'm speakin' after them as thinks they have a right to talk,” said the other.
“I might at my best day have come pretty nigh to Reuben,” the old man allowed, “though I never was his equal. But as for a real noble player—”
“Well, well,” said Fuller, “it ain't a hammer-chewer in a county as plays like Reuben. Give Mr. Gold a chair, Ruth. I should like to hear what might ha' made a man throw it over as had iver got as far.”
“I heard Paganini,” the old man answered. “I was up in London rather better than six-and-twenty year ago, and I heard Paganini.”
“Well?” asked Fuller.
“That's all the story,” said the old man, seating himself in the chair the girl had brought him. “I never cared to touch a bow again.”
“I don't seem to follow you, Mr. Gold.”
“I have never been a wine-drinker,” said Gold, “but I may speak of wine to make clear my mean-in'. If you had been drinkin' a wonderful fine glass of port or sherry wine, you wouldn't try to take the taste out of your mouth with varjuice.”