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

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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 bit of colour on the sidewalk attracted his eye, and he picked up the

object. Something those kids had been playing with. A bit of red glass

out of a piece of cheap jewellery. Not half bad for a fake. He would put

one over on Maggie when he turned in for supper. Certainly this was the

age of imitation. You couldn't buy a brass button with any confidence.

He put the trinket in his pocket and continued on, soon to forget it.




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