“Oh, well, egad,–I will join you, Dick,” said Strings, with more patronage still than apology. He seated himself upon the table and began anew to suck his orange in philosophic fashion.
“But, mind you, lad; never again offer that which is not your own, for there you are twice cursed,” he discoursed pompously. “You make him who receives guilty of your larceny. Oons, my old wound.” He winced from pain. “He becomes an accomplice in your crime. So says the King’s law. Hush, lad, I am devouring the evidence of your guilt.”
The boy by this time had placed the shield of oranges in the corner of the room and had returned to listen to Strings’s discourse. “You speak with the learning of a solicitor,” he said, as he looked respectfully into the old fiddler’s face.
Strings met the glance with due dignity.
“Marry, I’ve often been in the presence of a judge,” he replied, with great solemnity. His face reflected the ups and downs in his career as he made the confession.
“Is that where you have been, Strings, all these long days?” asked Dick, innocently.
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Strings, with sadly retrospective countenance. “Travelling, lad–contemplating the world, from the King’s highways. Take note, my boy,–a prosperous man! I came into the world without a rag that I could call my own, and now I have an abundance. Saith the philosopher: Some men are born to rags, some achieve rags and some have rags thrust upon them.”
“I wish you were back with us, Strings,” said the boy, sympathetically, as he put a hand upon Strings’s broad shoulder and looked admiringly up into his face.
“I wish so myself,” replied the fiddler. “Thrice a day, I grow lonesome here.” A weather-beaten hand indicated the spot where good dinners should be.
“They haven’t all forgot you, Strings,” continued his companion, consolingly.