“The old boy feels his toddy,” thought I.
The Don began to scrape dismally.
“Ah, don’t hold the bow so much in the middle!—So!—That’s better!—Now pull away! Keep the bow straight!—There, that’s right! So!—”
Charley rocked in his seat.
“Now, up! Down! Up! Down! Up! Very good! Down! Up! Bow straight!—”
Charley leaped from his chair and held his sides. Well, even Cato occasionally moistened his clay.
“So! Better still! Excellent! Upon my word, you are an apt scholar!”
Charley dropped into his seat, threw back his head, and shut his eyes.
The Don paused, smiling.
“What a tone!” exclaimed my grandfather. “Oh!” cried he with intense earnestness, “if—if I could but hear, once again, an artist play upon that violin!”