“Let me see that fiddle,” demanded Aarons, when the young man finished and put down his bow, and brought the coffee-pot to set on the coals.
De Zhirley turned a distrustful eye, but no precious violin toward his guest.
“Let me see that fiddle, I say,” repeated Aarons, rising up.
“Behave yourself,” said the young man, standing a head above him, and humoring him as a child might be humored by half granting his request.
The fellow handled its ancient body, and looked at Stradivari’s inscription.
“What’s that there, Theodore?”
“That’s the maker’s name.”
“Seventeen hunderd and—what’s them figgers?”
“That’s the year it was made.”
“Then it’s a mighty poor old thing, ain’t it?”