“Ah,—and Mr. Whacker has one of these old instruments?”
“Yes; and he is as tender with it as a mother with her first-born. He allows it to be brought out only during the Christmas holidays; though he used to let Monsieur Villemain play on it. The genuine ones are very rare and dear,” I added.
Another silent whe-e-ew from Charley.
“Oh, I should suppose so,” replied the Don.
“What did you say your Guarnerius cost you, grandfather?”
That was a question I asked every Christmas Eve, when the violin was brought out; and always with the same result.
“That,” replied the old gentleman, smiling and addressing the Don, “is a piece of information I have never given to my friends. You see, when I was a young man—”
We all knew what was coming,—the story that my grandfather always told to strangers when his Guarnerius was brought out for inspection. It was rather a long story,—how he took lessons from a very promising young artist, who took to gambling and drinking, and had, therefore, to sell his beloved violin to his pupil,—and how the young man grieved at giving it up, etc., etc., etc.
“So saying,” concluded Mr. Whacker, “he wrung my hand and hurried out of the room.”
“Ouch!” cried Charley, letting fall upon the hearth, at the same time, a large oyster and the knife with which he was opening it.