“Humph!” he grunted. “'Tis out of order; I remember now.... Humph! I—I forgot that. Well, we'll have to have some sort of music. Can anybody that's here play on anything?”
There was silence for a moment. Then a thin masculine voice from the dimness made proclamation.
“I can play on the fiddle,” it said; and then added, as if in afterthought, “some.”
There was a rustle in the corner from which the voice had come. Mutterings and whisperings arose. “Don't talk so foolish!” “Well, Sary, he asked if anybody could play on anything and I—” “Be still, I tell you! I declare if there's any chance for a person to make a jumpin' numbskull out of himself in front of folks I'll trust you to be right on deck.” “Now, Sary, what are you goin' on like this for? I only just—”
The dispute was growing louder and more violent. Captain Jethro roared a command for silence.
“What's all this?” he demanded. “Silence there for'ard!” He waited an instant and then asked, “Who was it said they could play the fiddle? Was it you, Abel Hardin'?”
Mr. Abel Harding, clam digger and fish purveyor, resident in South Wellmouth, acknowledged his identity.
“Yus, Cap'n Jeth,” he declared. “I said I could play the fiddle, and I can, too. Sary B., she says—”
“Sarah B.”—otherwise Mrs. Abel Harding—interrupted. “He can't play nothin' but two jig tunes and he plays them like the very Old Scratch,” she snapped, with emphasis.
“Well, I never said I was anything great at it, did I? I said I can play some, and I can. If you'd just keep your tongue to home and leave me be I—”