Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 123, No. 4 — page 194: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

700 frenzied wringing to his tortured fingers, and went before the curtain. Between the wings and the stage he effected a quick change—his manner became suave, tinged with a natural concern. _ “Yadies and gentlemen—I am sorry to be under the necessity of announcing to you that owing to the sudden indisposition of M. the concert scheduled for to- night cannot take place. I need not say how much I deplore the unavoidable dis- appointment. ’ Your tickets may be re- deemed at the box-office.” A great gasp of consternation went over the house; and yet many of them had al- ready got what they had come for. The starved music student, now sufficiently re- covered to make his way out with the rest, recklessly squandered a dime at a lunch- wagon for a cup of coffee and a bun. Am- bition began boring again in his brain like a maggot. Toward dusk of the same evening, a Jowering, blowy dusk after an angry sunset, a solitary pedestrian, tramping. stolidly along, his head almost concealed beneath a great felt hat, his loose cloak blowing backward like a mantle, a _fiddle-case hugged under his arm, made pause in the midst of the flat, d try where at in- tervals many shed-like buildings, huddled _ together within broken-fenced | enclosures giving upon bare reaches of stubble and black, cloddy ground, denoted one and another of the many little farms of that country. | By now the traveler was cold, tired and hungry; he had walked off the first fine enthusiasm of freedom. Hours _ before, scarcely realizing his purpose, he had left _ behind the irritating noise, confusion, and confinement of the city, and the ugly mag- nificence of his hotel, for the solitary ex- panse of the open country, taking with him but one companion—his fiddle. He approached one and another of the little dwellings where seemed curiously no sign of life. Once a lighted pane invited him—it was but a last reflection. of the dying light. But a little farther on, of a sudden through a thick clump of trees, he caught a shining—a sudden, wavering efful- g + Google ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. gence like moonlight through trees; and when he had come out into the open, he saw that there were many others here be- fore him. “ To trees and fences everywhere were hitched teams and smartly-saddled horses; gusts of merriment blew out through a sud- denly-opened door, and across the windows passed and repassed many figures. To the stranger in a strange land, it was as if suddenly he had come again home— home to that little Bohemian village of his birth—where on certain festive nights the neighbors were wont to congregate—young men and maidens, grandsires and grand- dames; many children; dogs, too—carts and horses. His eager nostrils caught the scent of boiling coffee—hot, thick, sweet—his mem- ory was drenched with it; he snapped his teeth down as he thought of the little, frosted cakes. He approached the door which at that moment opened to permit the egress of a stalwart young farmer. The folds of a great, flowered comforter spitting cotton spilled down from his arms—he was about to blanket his horse. ‘“ Hello!” exclaimed the young farmer, at sight of the stfanger; he retreated a little, staring; the door stood open, a flurry of snow blew in, the lights flared and faces crowded round. The stranger pulled off his wide hat, leaving an undulating cap of dark, curling hair exposed; his brows, curiously straight as if they had been drawn by rule, his eyes like bright slits in a shutter, his full and curving lips—the whole contour of his face —had an odd and foreign look. ‘* He’s got a fiddle!” cried one. ‘““A fiddle! <A fiddle!” ran round the group in the doorway; there were others peering over their shoulders. ‘“'What’s all the pother?”’ sounded a new voice. Old Jake Merriweather who was host, strode forward. He was in his shirt sleeves of faded butternut-yellow flannel, but his appearance was unwontedly height- ened by reason of the wide silk tie he wore. _ “Who sent ye?” he demanded, daubt- fully; “ Willy Kibbey’s been’ a-tunin’ this half hour!” A chorus of protests arose. Willy Kibbey #¥ Original fron THE OHIO STATE USERS 2OO SS