As he drew near the dwelling of Apollos, the strains of the fiddle seemed to welcome him on, and knocking at the door it was opened by the owner himself—his great chin holding firm to his breast the neck of the instrument, and his hand wielding the bow. Walking before him into a small back room, he made signs for him to be seated, and then taking up the air where the summons of Paul had interrupted it, he played it deliberately through!
Paul thought this proceeding very rude, to say the least of it—but if he could have read the heart of Apollos, he would have seen that he was only striving to lull into peace by the soothing powers of melody those rebellious and evil passions which the sight of his happier rival called forth.
At length, carefully hanging up the fiddle on a peg at his right hand, Apollos opened a small drawer, and taking out a pocket-book, put it into the hand of his astonished visiter.
“I reckon there is just two thousand dollars there—it is yours,” he said, bluntly. “I guess you’ll make a pretty straight bargain with that man that wants to sell out.”
Paul sat speechless with surprise at finding his affairs thus known to the strange man before him. Apollos arose, went to the window, and began to whistle, then added in a husky voice,
“I reckon old Howell wont object any longer; so you can—can marry—Linda!” and with another vociferous whistle, he again sat down.
By this time Paul, somewhat recovered from his first amazement, said, as he handed back the pocket-book,
“But, my dear sir, I cannot accept of your bounty I may never be able to repay you—”
“Put up the money, I say, put it up—it is yours,” interrupted Apollos; “I—I—overheard your talk with Linda, this afternoon—so you see I know all about you.”
“But why this interest for a stranger, Mr. Dalrymple—how can I ever repay—”