He played again some simple tune, and he played it with the touch which showed the skilled amateur. As he played, Mrs. Field noticed a grave restlessness on Williams's part. He moved about uneasily. He gnawed at his finger nails. His eyes glowed with a singular fire. His hands drummed and fingered. At last he approached and said roughly:
"Let me take that fiddle a minute."
"Oh, cheese it, Williams!" the men cried. "Let the other man play."
"What do you want to do with the fiddle—think it's a music box?" asked Sam, its owner.
"Go to hell!" said Williams. As Field gave the violin over to him his hands seemed to tremble with eagerness.
He raised his bow and struck into an imposing brilliant strain, and the men fell back in astonishment.
"Well, I'll be damned!" gasped the owner of the violin.
"Keep quiet, Sam."
Mrs. Field looked at her husband. "Why, Ed, he is playing Sarasate!"
"That's what he is," he returned slangily, too much astonished to do more than gaze. Williams played on.