The two of them went back to the office, sat down, and silently watched the whirling snow through the windows. When dinner was over, they went again to the mess-hall, and the Governor placed his fiddle and bow in the hands of Old Buck Wolfe. "If you can play 'Buffalo Gals,'" he smiled, "play it. It comes very near to being my favorite jig." "It's mine, my favorite," the big hillman exclaimed happily, "by a long shot!" He handled the beloved instrument with reverence. It seemed that he feared his knotty, work-hardened hands would scar it. On his countenance was the light of a rapture that the owner of that fiddle, being himself a fiddler, understood. Old Wolfe began to play his favorite; his left foot kept time on the stone floor, and his huge body swayed rhythmically to and fro. Soon every other person present was tapping the floor with a restless foot. There is no gloomy note in "Buffalo Gals." When the delighted mountaineer's wrists and fingers had become too weary to function properly, he lowered the instrument amid much applause. Then somebody lifted the cry, "One little tune from the Governor!" Others took it up, and it became a roar. The Fiddling Governor took the fiddle and tightened two of its strings a trifle. Because it was Christmas Day, the day of peace on earth and good will toward men. "What shall it be, boys?" His eyes twinkled pleasurably. Bully McCrary never made a greater mistake, though it came out all right in the end. "Home, Sweet Home, if you please, sir," he begged. The State's leading official rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Of course, he did not want to play that; there were those who would feel very much upset, if he did--why, it would be torture. But McCrary's gaze pleaded so hard; the melodramatic McCrary was ready to preach, pray, shout hallelujahs, sing, dance, or fight. The Governor put the fiddle into place and began, striving purposely to give a poor interpretation. But his fingers trembled in spite of him, rendering a delicate and soulful _vibrata_. The prisoners stared toward one another with wide, friendly eyes. Then, one by one, they began to stare toward the floor. [Illustration] Only a few bars had been played when Charley Wolfe, who had tried manfully to be a credit to his name, who had so bravely hidden all signs of his affliction, crumpled to his knees and cried out in the musical hill dialect two unbidden words in one--"Goddle-mighty!" Just that. The Governor quickly passed his fiddle and bow into the hands of the warden, knelt beside Charley Wolfe, and swept back from the clammy brow the thick, dead-black hair. He lifted the lean face, saw a trace of red at each corner of the quivering, sensitive mouth, and knew. Charley Wolfe no longer had a secret. "He's got the bugs, sure," very sympathetically said Bully McCrary, who also had seen. "He's got 'em, sure." "Warden," the Governor asked, "how much is there left of this boy's sentence?"