"I guess we're like yersel', Pete," replied Alec McPherson, "men of action. Our fingers like your own are stiff and clumsy, better playing wid the axe, pick, or trigger, than wid sich delicate pieces o' cat-gut."
"Right yer are, man," assented Pete. "But I'm mighty disappinted, nevertheless, fer I did want ter hear an old tune or two."
At this, Tim Craven, a full six-footer in his stockings, stretched out a huge, hairy hand.
"Give her to me, Pete," he said. "Once I could play a little, and maybe a few of the old tunes'll float back again. I use to manage a few jigs," he continued, as he tightened up the strings, "such as 'The Fisher's Hornpipe,' and 'Auld Lang Syne,' but I'm afraid I'm all out of practice."
Then began such a sawing and scraping as the little cabin had never before heard. Had the violin been animate it would have shivered itself to pieces in a short time. A choir master, or an orchestra leader would have been driven almost insane at such an exhibition. But Tim's companions never winced. On the contrary, they seemed to enjoy it thoroughly, and tapped the floor with their great rough boots as the various jigs were reeled off.
At length the musician stopped; his supply was exhausted, and he laid the violin upon the table.
"It's all I know," he remarked, reaching for his pipe.
"Give them to us again," said Alec. "You've done fine."
"Don't ye know a leetle Christmas song, Tim?" asked Pete, with a disappointed look in his face.
"I'm afraid not. They're all I know."