The Unknown took it in an awkward and confused sort of way. My grandfather looked chopfallen. “I thought that possibly you might have seen Cremonas in Europe,” observed the old man timidly.
The Don bowed,—whether in assent or dissent was not clear; nor was it any clearer, as he gently rocked it to and fro, examining the f-holes and other points of what is known as the belly of the instrument, whether he was moved by curiosity or by courtesy. A motion of his wrist brought the back of the instrument in view. “By Jove!” vehemently exclaimed the stranger, as a flood of golden light flashed into his eyes from the unapproachable varnish; but he colored and looked confused when he saw that his warmth had drawn the eyes of all upon himself. Even Charley ceased examining the bandage on his finger and quietly scrutinized the Don out of the corners of his eyes.
But you should have seen your ancestor and mine, my dear boy. He rose from his seat without saying a single word. There was an expression of defiance in his fine brown eyes, not unmingled with solemnity. He held out his upturned hands as though he were going to begin a speech, I was going to say,—but it was not that. His look and attitude were those of an advocate who has just brought a poser to bear on opposing counsel. And such my grandfather felt was his case. “For years,” his looks seemed to say, “I have been chaffed about my Guarnerius by you bumpkins, and now here comes a man who puts you all down by one word.” He looked from face to face to see if any of the company had anything to say to the contrary. At last his eve met Billy’s. That young gentleman, willing to retrieve his disastrous defeat in the matter of scrolls and contours and f-holes, again came to the front.
“Doesn’t it shine!” remarked that unfortunate youth, approvingly.
“Shine!” shouted my grandfather, indignantly,—“shine!” repeated he with rising voice, and rapping the back of the violin with his knuckles,—“do you call that shiny?” said he, with another rap, and holding the instrument in front of Billy. “Why, a tin pan shines,—a well-fed negro boy’s face shines,—and you say that shines,” he added, with an argumentative rap. “Is that the way you are taught to discriminate in the use of words at the University?” And the old gentleman smiled, mollified by Billy’s evident confusion and the shouts of laughter that greeted his discomfiture.
“Why, Uncle Tom, if that violin doesn’t shine, what does it do?”
“Why, it—well—I should say—ahem!—in fact, it—I—”
“What would you call it, Uncle Tom?” urged Billy, rallying bravely from his rout, and trying to assume a wicked smile.
“What would I call it? I would call it—well—the violin—confound it! I should hold my tongue rather than say that violin was shiny.” And the old gentleman turned upon his heel and stalked across the room; but Billy was not the man to relinquish his advantage.
“How, Uncle Tom, that is not fair,” said he, following up his adversary, and holding on to the lappel of his coat in an affectionately teasing manner. “Give us your word.”