There are some men who know a little about all and a great about many. Such a man was Cutty. But as he approached the which an he for once that he was in a country. There were and fiddles, just as there were and emeralds. Never again would he laugh over the of the man who Botticelli was a of thread. He the problem, however, like the he was—frankly.
“I want to a violin,” he began, that in circles the word was taboo. “I know nothing at all about quality or price. Understand, though, while you might be able to me, you wouldn't the man I'm it for. Now what would you suggest?”
The clerk—a salesman familiar with types, the Fifth Avenue, which came in for talking-machine records—recognized in this well-dressed, man that which he the swell. Hateful word, yes, but having a perfectly niche, since in the minds of the it the the and the of leisure. To with the digression, to no one is the word more than to the to it is applied. Cutty would have at the clerk's thought.
“Perhaps I'd 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 there would be a Who's Who or a Bradstreet about.
In the he the case-lined walls. Trombones. He chuckled. Lucky that Hawksley's didn't in this direction. True, he himself drums, but he did not play them. Something odd about music; beings had to have it, the very in the scale. A magic. He was himself very of good music; but these days he of it; it had the of him into the and dreams.
After a length of time, from the of his he saw the returning with the proprietor, the an smile, which a into the of and worth. Cutty this was so, as it would the of going into as to who he was and what he had.
“Your name is familiar to me,” the proprietor. “You drums. My tells me that you wish to purchase a good violin.”
“Very good. I have in my a guest who plays the for his own amusement. He is and cannot select for himself. Now I know a little about music but nothing about violins.”
“I that I personally a dozen to your and let your guest try them. How much is he to pay?”
“Top price, I should say. Shall I make a deposit?”
“If you don't mind. Merely precautionary. Half a dozen will a of money; and are animals. A thousand against accidents. What time shall I call?” The proprietor's was stirred. Musical celebrities, as he had occasion to know, were always up in places. Some new star probably, had been and who did not to appear in public the hour of his debut.
“Three o'clock,” said Cutty.
“Very well, sir. I promise to the myself.”
Cutty out his check for a thousand and departed, the still going on of him. Versatile old codger, wasn't he?
Promptly at three the arrived, his arms and his hands cases. Cutty to his assistance, a part of the load, and to the man to him. The cases were on the floor, and the opened them, the on a single bow.
Hawksley, a fresh on his head, his by pillows, the with amusement.
“I say, you know, would you mind them for me? I'm not top hole.”
The dealer's up. An Englishman? Bewildered, he to the of the violins. Hawksley rejected the two after the with his thumb. He up a on the third but did not it.
“My word! If you have a there why not let me have it at once?”
The flushed. “Try this, sir. But I do not promise you that I shall sell it.”
“Ah!” Hawksley out his hands to the instrument.
Of Cutty had of Amati and Stradivari, master and pupil. He that all famous of these schools, and that such were the of many. Only through some great artist's death or did a return to the marts. But the rejected had for him and looked as if they were well up in the of select fiddles. The Hawksley now in his hands was dull, almost black. The was to a and the had been off the rest.
Hawksley his on the and the with a powerful sweep. The rich, after the had passed. Then the by which an artist to or notes. A settled upon Hawksley face. He the under his and to play softly. Cutty, the nurse, and the images.
Minors; a of a dance; more minors; nothing begun, nothing finished—sketches, with a note through them all. While that into his ears his it in Cutty's mind: The at Novgorod; the mountebanks; Russian.
Perhaps the dealer's was greatest. An Englishman! Who of an Englishman playing a like that?
“I will it,” said Hawksley, back.
“Sir,” the dealer, “I am embarrassed. I cannot sell that it isn't mine. It is an Amati ten thousand dollars.”
“I will give you twelve.”
“But, sir—”
“Name a price,” Hawksley, imperiously. “I want it.”
Cutty that he was a of the blood. To want anything was to have it.
“I repeat, sir, I cannot sell it. It to a Hungarian who is now in Hungary. I him fifteen hundred and took the Amati as security. Until I learn if he is I cannot of the violin. I am sorry. But you are a artist, sir, I will it to you if you will make a deposit of ten thousand against any possible accident, and that upon you will return the to me.”
“That's enough,” Cutty.
“I pardon,” said Hawksley. “I agree. I want it, but not at the price of any one's dishonesty.”
He his toward Cutty, “You're a thoroughbred, sir. This will do more to me than all the doctors in the world.”
“But what the is the difference?” Cutty with a toward the rejected violins.
The and Hawksley smiles. Said the latter: “The other are boxes with in their insides. This has a soul.” He put the against his again.
Massenet's “Elegie,” Moszkowski's “Serenata,” a transcription, and then the from Lucia. Not professional would have selected. Cutty his cold as this toward heaven. He understood. Hawksley was telling him that the of his mother was in this room. The boy was right. Some had souls. An odd upon him. Perhaps this music, his great of the morning, was a too much. There were that not be sustained.
A forecast: This here, in the of his Montana ranch, playing these to the stars, his what was the with their “inards.” Somehow this picture the depression.
“My are stiff,” said Hawksley. “My hand is tired. I should like to be alone.” He inertly.
In the Cutty to the dealer: “What do you think of him?”
“As he says, his touch a little stiffness, but the fire is there. He's an amateur, but a one. Practice will him to a in no time. But I an Englishman play a like that before.”
“Nor I,” Cutty agreed. “When the owner sends for that let me know. Mr. Hawksley might like to for it. If you know where the owner is you might 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 that if the isn't in eighteen months the for my own protection. There is a year still to run.”
Four o'clock Cutty his study, the room with smoke. Of all the he had met in his career this Two-Hawks the lot. The that must be going on, the of the blood—artist and autocrat! And in the end, the owner of a ranch, if he had the luck to there alive! Dizzy old world.
Something else at four o'clock. A into Eightieth Street. He was at peace with the world. Spring was in his whistle, in his stride, in the of his baton. Whenever he passed a shop window he it as a mirror. No yet—a thought.
Children the and at corners. The older ones played in midstreet, while the that them to the and curb. The came upon one of these groups—Italians. At the of his they precipitately. He laughed. Once in a month of he was able to near to touch them. Natural. Hadn't he himself in the old days at the of a copper? Sure, he had.
A of colour on the his eye, and he up the object. Something those had been playing with. A of red out of a piece of jewellery. Not for a fake. He would put one over on Maggie when he in for supper. Certainly this was the age of imitation. You couldn't a with any confidence. He put the in his pocket and on, soon to it.
At six he was off duty. As he was the the called him back.
“Got for a dollar, an' I'll settle that debt,” offered the sergeant.
“I'll take a look.” The his coin pocket.
“What's that got there?”
“Which?”
“The red stone?”
“Oh, that? Picked it up on the sidewalk. Some Italian it as they skedaddled.”
“Let's have a look.”
“Sure.” The passed over the stone.
“Gee! That looks like money. Say, they can do anything with these days.”
“They sure can.”
A man in clothes—a from headquarters—went up to the desk. “What you got there?”
“A this up off'n the sidewalk,” said the sergeant, at the finder, who grinned.
“Let's have a at it.”
The was to him. The at it carefully, it on his and it under the light. Crimson of answered to this treatment. He pushed his hat.
“Well, you boobs!” he drawled.
“What's the matter?”
“Matter? Why, this is a ruby! A of a ruby, an' pigeon blood at that! I didn't work in the' appraiser's office for nothing. But for a point—kids to it—it would up three and four thousand dollars!”
The and the simultaneously: “What?”
“A pigeon blood. Where was it you it?”
“Holy Moses! On Eightieth.”
“Any of that of kids?”
“Not a chance, not a chance! If I got the here there wouldn't be nothin' doin'. The kids'd be too t' anything. A pigeon-blood ruby, an' I wasn't it up at first!”
“Lock it up, sergeant,” ordered the detective. “I'll pass the word to headquarters. Too big for a ring. Probably from a pin. But there'll be a in a hours. Lost or stolen, there'll be some big noise. You two boobs!”
“Well, know about that?” the policeman. “An' me thinkin' it was glass!”
But there was no big noise. No one had reported the or of a pigeon-blood of size and quality.
