"That was a new string, too!" he said; "and only half tight." Then he blushed violently, seeking to hide the irritation of his tone under a careless laugh.
"Oh, I don't mind the string," he went on; "that's easy mended, but I happened to think it's a bad sign, that's all—to break down so in the middle of a tune."
"Darn the sign!" exclaimed Harvey, "I wanted to hear that played through."
"You remember Willie Reene?" Luther turned his eyes, still unnaturally bright with excitement, towards George Olver.
"Ay, I remember," said George Olver. "I was goin' mackerellin' with ye myself that time, only I wrinched my wrist so."
"GOOD NIGHT."
"We was out on deck together," Luther continued. "I was lying down,—it was a strange, warmish sort of a night—and Willie played. He played a long time. It was just in the middle of a tune he was playin', that—snap! the string went in just that way. I never thought anything about it. I tried to laugh him out of it, and he laughed, but says he, 'It's a bad sign, Lute.' Likely it had nothin' to do with it, but I think of it sometimes, and then it seems as though I must go to that same place and look for him again. I never done anything harder than when I left him there."
"You done the best you could," George Olver answered stoutly, "They said you dove for him long and long after it wasn't no use."
"No use," Luther repeated, shaking his head sadly and abstractedly; "no use."