"Why—haw! haw!—he dunno yit. But I b'lieve he's beginnin' ter have his doubts—like th' feller 't got holt of the black snake a-thinkin' it was a heifer's tail," chuckled Walky, whose face was very red and whose spicy breath—Joe Bodley always kept a saucer of cloves on the end of the bar—was patent to all in the store.
"Joe's a good sport; he ain't squealin' none," pursued Dexter; "but there is the fiddle a-hangin' behint th' bar an' Joe's beginnin' ter look mighty sour when ye mention it to him."
"Why, Mr. Dexter!" 'Rill said, in surprise, "hasn't he turned it over to the man he said he bought it for?"
"Wal—not so's ye'd notice it," Walky replied, grinning fatuously. "I dunno who the feller is, or how much money he gin Joe in the fust place to help pay for the fiddle—some, of course. But if Joe paid Hopewell a hundred dollars for the thing you kin jest bet he 'spected to git ha'f as much ag'in for it.
"But I reckon the feller's reneged or suthin'. Joe ain't happy about it—he! he! Mebbe on clost examination the fiddle don't 'pear ter be one o' them old masters they tell about! Haw! haw! haw!"
Janice started to say something. "Why don't they look inside——"
"Inside o' what?" demanded Walky, when the girl halted.
"I am positive that Hopewell would never have sold it for a hundred dollars if he hadn't felt he must," broke in the storekeeper's wife, and Janice did not complete her impulsive observation.
"Ye can't most allus sometimes tell!" drawled Walky. "Mebbe Hopewell had suthin' up his sleeve 'sides his wrist. Haw! haw! haw!
"Shucks! talk about a fiddle bein' wuth a hunderd dollars! Jefers-pelters! I seen one a-hangin' in a shop winder at Bennington once 't looked every whit as good as Hopewell's, and as old, an' 'twas marked plain on a card, 'two dollars an' a ha'f.'"