“Eric’s was the better one, really,” Joan remarked.
“Every one seems agreed.” Uncle John passed the check over to Abie. “I guess the violin is the boy’s.”
“Won’t you play something?” Joan begged Eric. “Do let him, Uncle John. The paper’s out, and no one’s busy.”
At Uncle John’s nod, Eric took the violin from its case and tucked it under his chin. A dark lock of his hair tumbled upon his forehead and made his thin face look even whiter than usual. “A regular violin face,” Joan thought to herself. “I wonder I didn’t think of it before. And I thought he’d be a speedy ball player, because he was thin. Fine reporter I’d be!”
Eric played. A dreamy but spirited thing that made you think of lads and lassies doing an old-time dance on a green countryside. Joan could picture the colors of their costumes as the couples whisked about, hopping, and smiling to each other. Every one in the little office stood perfectly still while Eric played.
When he finished, the bow drooped limp and lifeless in his hand. Uncle John strode toward the door. “Very nice, indeed,” he said, and his voice was gruff. “But this is hardly a concert hall.”
Abie was clapping his hairy hands. “Wonderful! Wonderful! Five dollars and even more you would pay to hear such playing like that!”
“The kid’s clever, no joke,” Tim remarked as he went out. “And their swapping the prizes will make a peach of a follow-up story.”
Eric held out his hand to Joan, right there in front of Jimmy and Chub. “Thank you very much,” he said in his grown-up way, “for helping us out—for solving the mystery.”
Joan laughed. “Don’t thank me. Thank Em. She did it.”