“I certainly do.” Ted spoke soberly. “Dad paid good money for that violin. It was wasted as far as I’m concerned. But you can really play!”
Yes, Jack could play. From his eighth birthday on, he had known but one ambition—to become a really fine violinist. Then had come the war, and—but why think of that? The war was here. He was a scout pilot.
For a moment he stood silently thinking. Then he said:
“Tell you what.” His voice was low and full of emotion. “You wanted my radio. I’ll swap you.”
“It’s a go,” Ted agreed.
Then, fearing that his first tune had dug too deep into the souls of his comrades, Jack struck out with the old “Virginia Reel.”
At once the whole gang was whirling about in a mad sort of dance.
“Concert’s over!” Jack exclaimed at last, tucking the violin under his arm. “Tomorrow we fight.”
“Tomorrow we fight! Tomorrow we fight!” came echoing back. And so the party broke up.
Jack had the precious violin, acquired in such a strange manner, tucked under his arm as he and Stew strode down the deck toward the ladder that led to a night’s repose.