‘“Ho!” he says, and he shoves two bottles at me. “What’s those?”
‘“Calomel,” I says. “And t’other’s senna.”
‘“Right,” he says. “One week have I tried to teach Gert Schwankfelder the difference between them, yet he cannot tell. You like to fiddle?” he says. He’d just seen my kit on the floor.
‘“Oh yes!” says I.
‘“Oho!” he says. “What note is this?” drawing his bow acrost.
‘He meant it for A, so I told him it was.
‘“My brother,” he says to the Indian. “I think this is the hand of Providence! I warned that Gert if he went to play upon the wharves any more he would hear from me. Now look at this boy and say what you think.”
‘The Indian looked me over whole minutes—there was a musical clock on the wall and dolls came out and hopped while the hour struck. He looked me over all the while they did it.
‘“Good,” he says at last. “This boy is good.”
‘“Good, then,” says Toby. “Now I shall play my fiddle and you shall sing your hymn, brother. Boy, go down to the bakery and tell them you are young Gert Schwankfelder that was. The horses are in Davy Jones’s locker. If you ask any questions you shall hear from me.”