Berry was an institution even in
this new Western town. He kept his place and he forced the white man,
whoever he was, to keep his place.
When he saw Jethro Fawe enter the shop he did not stop playing, but his
eyes searched the newcomer. Following his glance, Ingolby turned round
and saw the Romany. His first impression was one of admiration, but
suspicion was quickly added. He was a good judge of men, and there was
something secluded about the man which repelled him. Yet he was
interested. The dark face had a striking racial peculiarity.
The music died away, and old Berry lowered the fiddle from his chin and
gave his attention to the Romany.
"Yeth-'ir?" he said questioningly.
For an instant Jethro was confused. When he entered the shop he had not
made up his mind what he should do. It had been mere impulse and the
fever of his brain. As old Berry spoke, however, his course opened out.
"I heard. I am a stranger. My fiddle is not here. My fingers itch for
the cat-gut. Eh?"
The look in old Berry's face softened a little. His instinct had been
against his visitor, and he had been prepared to send him to another
shop-besides, not every day could he talk to the greatest man in the
West.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38