And as Warren walked on, Sarah, tagging after him, began an exhaustive and relentless study of cats and violin strings.
Richard held the wire carefully, but his dancing brown eyes suggested that he was not too busy to talk.
"There was an old man playing the violin last night," said Rosemary. "Did you hear him?"
Richard nodded.
"Old Fiddlestrings," he answered. "You'll probably hear him every moonlight night. Winter and summer he goes up and down the road playing his one tune."
"It was the 'Serenade,'" said Rosemary. "Does he always play that? Where does he live? Is he poor?"
"Not so poor as he is crazy," declared Richard sententiously. "He has enough money so he never has to work. He lives in a crazy little cabin on the other side of the hill and has a garden where he raises herbs and sells them—they say he does a big business with the city drugstores."
"Guess you'd call it work, digging in that yard of his," observed Mr. Hildreth drily.
"Well—what I mean is, he doesn't have to go out and work by the week," explained Richard.
"And his music?" asked Rosemary, pulling Shirley back as the investigating toe of her sandal threatened to dip into the water.