he was in a far country。 There were fiddles and fiddles； just as
there were emeralds and emeralds。 Never again would he laugh over
the story of the man who thought Botticelli was a manufacturer of
spool thread。 He attacked the problem； however； like the
thoroughbred he was … frankly。
〃I want to buy a violin；〃 he began； knowing that in polite musical
circles the word fiddle was taboo。 〃I know absolutely nothing at
all about quality or price。 Understand； though； while you might be
able to fool me； you wouldn't fool the man I'm buying it for。 Now
what would you suggest？〃
The clerk … a salesman familiar with certain urban types； thinly
including the Fifth Avenue； which came in for talking…machine
records … recognized in this well…dressed； attractive elderly man
that which he designated the swell。 Hateful word； yes； but having
a perfectly legitimate niche； since in the minds of the hoi polloi
it nicely describes the differences between the poor gentleman and
the gentleman of leisure。 To proceed with the digression； to no one
is the word more hateful than to the individual to whom it is
applied。 Cutty would have blushed at the clerk's thought。
〃Perhaps I'd better get the proprietor；〃 was the clerk's suggestion。
〃Good idea；〃 Cutty agreed。 〃Take my card along with you。〃 This was
a Fifth Avenue shop； and Cutty knew there would be a Who's Who or a
Bradstreet somewhere about。
In the interim he inspected the case…lined walls。 Trombones。 He
chuckled。 Lucky that Hawksley's talent didn't extend in this
direction。 True； he himself collected drums； but he did not play
them。 Something odd about music； human beings had to have it； the
very lowest in the scale。 A universal magic。 He was himself very
fond of good music； but these days he fought shy of it； it had the
faculty of sweeping him back into the twenties and reincarnating
vanished dreams。
After a certain length of time； from the corner of his eye he saw
the clerk returning with the proprietor； the latter wearing an
amiable smile； which probably connoted a delving into the aforesaid
volumes of attainment and worth。 Cutty hoped this was so； as it
would obviate the necessity of going into details as to who he was
and what he had。
〃Your name is familiar to me；〃 began the proprietor。 〃You collect
antique drums。 My clerk tells me that you wish to purchase a good
violin。〃
〃Very good。 I have in my apartment rather a distinguished guest
who plays the violin for his own amusement。 He is ill and cannot
select for himself。 Now I know a little about music but nothing
about violins。〃
〃I suggest that I personally carry half a dozen instruments to your
apartment and let your guest try them。 How much is he willing to
pay？〃
〃Top price； I should say。 Shall I make a deposit？〃
〃If you don't mind。 Merely precautionary。 Half a dozen violins
will represent quite a sum of money； and taxicabs are unreliable
animals。 A thousand against accidents。 What time shall I call？〃
The proprietor's curiosity was stirred。 Musical celebrities； as he
had occasion to know； were always popping up in queer places。 Some
new star probably； whose violin had been broken and who did not
care to appear in public before the hour of his debut。
〃Three o'clock；〃 said Cutty。
〃Very well； sir。 I promise to bring the violins myself。〃
Cutty wrote out his check for a thousand and departed； the chuckle
still going on inside of him。 Versatile old codger； wasn't he？
Promptly at three the dealer arrived； his arms and his hands gripping
violin cases。 Cutty hurried to his assistance； accepted a part of
the load； and beckoned to the man to follow him。 The cases were
placed on the floor； and the dealer opened them； putting the rosin
on a single bow。
Hawksley； a fresh bandage on his head； his shoulders propped by
pillows； eyed the initial manoeuvres with frank amusement。
〃I say； you know； would you mind tuning them for me？ I'm not top
hole。〃
The dealer's eyebrows went up。 An Englishman？ Bewildered； he bent
to the trifling labour of tuning the violins。 Hawksley rejected the
first two instruments after thrumming the strings with his thumb。
He struck up a melody on the third but did not finish it。
〃My word！ If you have a violin there why not let me have it at once？〃
The dealer flushed。 〃Try this； sir。 But I do not promise you that
I shall sell it。〃
〃Ah！〃 Hawksley stretched out his hands to receive the instrument。
Of course Cutty had heard of Amati and Stradivari； master and pupil。
He knew that all famous violinists possessed instruments of these
schools； and that such violins were practically beyond the reach of
many。 Only through some great artist's death or misfortune did a
fine violin return to the marts。 But the rejected fiddles had
sounded musically enough for him and looked as if they were well up
in the society of select fiddles。 The fiddle Hawksley now held in
his hands was dull； almost black。 The maple neck was worn to a
shabby gray and the varnish had been sweated off the chin rest。
Hawksley laid his fingers on the strings and drew the bow with a
powerful flourishing sweep。 The rich； sonorous tones vibrated after
the bow had passed。 Then followed the tricks by which an artist
seeks to discover flaws or wolf notes。 A beatific expression settled
upon Hawksley face。 He nestled the violin comfortably under his chin
and began to play softly。 Cutty； the nurse； and the dealer became
images。
Minors； a bit of a dance； more minors； nothing really begun； nothing
really finished … sketches； with a melancholy note running through
them all。 While that pouring into his ears enchained his body it
stirred recollections in Cutty's mind： The fair at Novgorod； the
fiddling mountebanks； Russian。
Perhaps the dealer's astonishment was greatest。 An Englishman！ Who
ever heard of an Englishman playing a violin like that？
〃I will buy it；〃 said Hawksley； sinking back。
〃Sir；〃 began the dealer； 〃I am horribly embarrassed。 I cannot sell
that violin because it isn't mine。 It is an Amati worth ten thousand
dollars。〃
〃I will give you twelve。〃
〃But； sir … 〃
〃Name a price；〃 interrupted Hawksley； rather imperiously。 〃I want it。〃
Cutty understood that he was witnessing a flash of the ancient blood。
To want anything was to have it。
〃I repeat； sir； I cannot sell it。 It belongs to a Hungarian who is
now in Hungary。 I loaned him fifteen hundred and took the Amati as
security。 Until I learn if he is dead I cannot dispose of the
violin。 I am sorry。 But because you are a real artist； sir； I will
loan it to you if you will make a deposit of ten thousand against any
possible accident； and that upon demand you will return the instrument
to me。〃
〃That's fair enough；〃 interposed Cutty。
〃I beg pardon；〃 said Hawksley。 〃I agree。 I want it； but not at the
price of any one's dishonesty。〃
He turned his head toward Cutty； 〃You're a thoroughbred； sir。 This
will do more to bring me round than all the doctors in the world。〃
〃But what the deuce is the difference？〃 Cutty demanded with a gesture
toward the rejected violins。
The dealer and Hawksley exchanged smiles。 Said the latter： 〃The
other violins are pretty wooden boxes with tolerable tunes in their
insides。 This has a soul。〃 He put the violin against his cheek
again。
Massenet's 〃Elegie；〃 Moszkowski's 〃Serenata；〃 a transcription； and
then the aria from Lucia。 Not compositions professional violinists
would have selected。 Cutty felt his spine grow cold as this aria
poured goldenly toward heaven。 He understood。 Hawksley was telling
him that the shade of his glorious mother was in this room。 The boy
was right。 Some fiddles had souls。 An odd depression bore down
upon him。 Perhaps this surprising music； topping his great emotions
of the morning； was a straw too much。 There were certain exaltations
that could not be sustained。
A whimsical forecast： This chap here； in the dingy parlour of his
Montana ranch； playing these indescribable melodies to the stars；
his cowmen outside wondering what was the matter with their 〃inards。〃
Somehow this picture lightened the depression。
〃My fingers are stiff；〃 said Hawksley。 〃My hand is tired。 I should
like to be alone。〃 He lay back rather inertly。
In the corridor Cutty whispered to the dealer： 〃What do you think
of him？〃
〃As he says； his touch shows a little stiffness； but the wonderful
fire is there。 He's an amateur； but a fine one。 Practice will
bring him to a finish in no time。 But I never heard an Englishman
play a violin like that before。〃
〃Nor I；〃 Cutty agreed。 〃When the owner sends for that fiddle let
me know。 Mr。 Hawksley might like to dicker for it。 If you know
where the owner is you might cable that you have an offer of twelve
thousand。〃
〃I'm sorry； but I haven't the least idea where the owner is。 However；
there is an understanding that if the loan isn't covered in eighteen
months the instrument becomes salable for my own protection。 There
is a year still to run。〃
Four o'clock found Cutty pacing his study； the room blue with smoke。
Of all the queer chaps he had met in his varied career this Two…Hawks
topped the lot。 The constant internal turmoil that must be going on；
the instincts of the blood … artist and autocrat！ And in the end；
the owner of a cattle ranch； if he had the luck to get there alive！
Dizzy old world。
Something else happened at four o'clock。 A policeman strolled into
Eightieth Street。 He was at peace with the world。 Spring was in
his whistle； in his stride； in the twirl of his baton。 Whenever
he passed a shop window he made it serve as a mirror。 No waistline
yet … a comforting thought。
Children swarmed the street and gathered at corners。 The older ones
played boldly in midstreet； while the toddlers invented games that
kept them to the sidewalk and curb。 The policeman came stealthily
upon one of these latter groups … Italians。 At the sight of his
brass buttons they fled precipitately。 He laughed。 Once in a month
of moons he was able to get near enough to touch them。 Natural。
Hadn't he himself hiked in the old days at the sight of a copper？
Sure； he had。
A