"So go right ahead with your evening prayers. All but--you understand!" "All right, captain," said Sam, the man with the fiddle. When Mrs. Field looked in, two men were furiously grinding axes; several were sewing on ragged garments; all were smoking; some were dressing chapped or bruised fingers. The atmosphere was horrible. The socks and shirts were steaming above the huge stove; the smoke and stench for a moment were sickening, but Ridgeley pushed them just inside the door. "It's better out of the draught." Sam jigged away on the violin. The men kept time with the cranks of the grindstone, and all faces turned with bashful smiles and bold grins at Mrs. Field. Most of them shrank a little from her look, like shy animals. Ridgeley threw open the window. "In the old days," he explained to Mrs. Field, "we used a fireplace, and that kept the air better." As her sense of smell became deadened the air seemed a little more tolerable to Mrs. Field. "Oh, we must change all this," she said. "It is horrible." "Play us a tune," said Sam, extending the violin to Field. He did not think Field could play. It was merely a shot in the dark on his part. Field took it and looked at it and sounded it. On every side the men turned face in eager expectancy. "He can play, that feller." "I'll bet he can. He handles her as if he knew her." "You bet your life. Tune up, Cap." Williams came from the obscurity somewhere, and looked over the shoulders of the men. "Down in front!" somebody called, and the men took seats on the benches, leaving Field standing with the violin in hand. He smiled around upon them in a frank, pleased way, quite ready to show his skill. He played _Annie Laurie_, and a storm of applause broke out. "_Hoo-ray!_ Bully for you!" "Sam, you're out of it!" "Sam, your name is Mud!" "Give us another, Cap!" "It ain't the same fiddle!" He played again some simple tune, and he played it with the touch which showed the skilled amateur. As he played, Mrs. Field noticed a growing restlessness on Williams' part. He moved about uneasily. He gnawed at his finger-nails. His eyes glowed with a singular fire. His hands drummed and fingered. At last he approached, and said, roughly: "Let me take that fiddle a minute." "Oh, cheese it, Williams!" the men cried. "Let the other man play." "What do _you_ want to do with the fiddle--think it's a music-box?" asked Sam, its owner. "Go to hell!" said Williams. As Field gave the violin over to him, his hands seemed to tremble with eagerness. He raised his bow, and struck into an imposing, brilliant strain, and the men fell back in astonishment. "Well, I'll be damned!" gasped the owner of the violin. "Keep quiet, Sam." Mrs. Field looked at her husband. "Why, Ed, he is playing _Sarasate_!" "That's what he is," he returned, slangily, too much astonished to do more than gaze. Williams played on.