If 'twarn't fo'h Buckra I'd cut
'e troat, sartin." This ominous expression, delivered with such
emphasis, satisfies Harry that he has got into the hands of a master
very unlike the kind and careless Marston.
Onward the cars speed, with clanking music making din as they go.
One of the negroes will add something to change the monotony.
Fumbling beneath the seats for some minutes, he draws forth a little
bag, carefully unties it, and presents his favourite violin. Its
appearance gladdens the hearts of his comrades, who welcome it with
smiling faces and loud applause. The instrument is of the most
antique and original description. It has only two strings; but Simon
thinks wonders of it, and would not swap it for a world of modern
fiddles, what don't touch the heart with their music. He can bring
out tremendous wailings with these two strings; such as will set the
whole plantation dancing. He puts it through the process of tuning,
adding all the scientific motions and twists of an Italian
first-fiddling artiste. Simon will moisten its ears by spitting on
them, which he does, turning and twisting himself into the attitudes
of a pompous maestro. But now he has got it in what he considers the
very nick of tune; it makes his face glow with satisfaction.
"Jest-lef'-'um cum, Simon;--big and strong!" says Joe, beginning to
keep time by slapping his hands on his knees. And such a sawing,
such a scraping, as he inflicts, never machine of its kind, ancient
or modern, got before.
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