“I tell ye,” said Jerry, looking down into the candid upturned face beneath the torn brim of the old white wool hat, “ye fetch Obadiah’s fiddle ter-morrer, an hour ’fore sundown, ter the sulphur spring, an’ I’ll l’arn ye them new chunes. An’ I’ll tell ye all ’bout Ike, an’ what he said an’ why I wanter keep sech ez him off’n them Bluffs.” “Waal,” assented Skimpy, “I kin make out ter git the fiddle, I reckon.” But it was with little joyous anticipation that he turned away. Ike’s words, as reported by Binwell, rankled in his heart; it was hot and heavy within him. He even shed a forlorn tear or two—to thus make acquaintance with the specious delusions of friendship. It was not so much the sting of wounded vanity, although he was sensible too of this—but that Ike should affect to esteem him so dearly and ridicule him behind his back! He was generous enough, however, to seek to make excuses to himself for his friend. “I reckon,” he muttered, “it mus’ hev been arter dad wouldn’t lemme go with Ike no mo’ an’ it riled him, an’ so he tuk ter tongue-lashin’ me. I reckon he never thunk ez I couldn’t holp it.” And thus he disappeared down the woodland ways, leaving Jerry Binwell standing in the road and looking meditatively after him. “I reckon it’s better ennyhow,” Binwell soliloquized. “Ike’s a hundred times smarter’n him, but he air smart enuff. Bes’ not be too smart. An’ though he be ez tall ez Ike he’s a deal stringier; he’s powerful slim. Ike ain’t much less’n me—an’ I be a deal too bulky—git stuck certain. Skimpy’s the boy.” He remained silent for a time, vacantly gazing down the woods. Then suddenly he turned and betook himself homeward. IX. Circumstances the next day seemed adverse to Skimpy’s scheme. Obadiah for some time past had not been musically disposed, and the violin had hung silent on the cabin wall in company with strings of red peppers, and bags of herbs, and sundry cooking utensils. That afternoon the spirit of melody within him was newly awakened. Skimpy, who had been lurking about the place, watching his opportunity, was dismayed to see Obadiah come briskly out of the cabin door with the instrument in his hand, and establish himself in a rickety chair on the porch. He tilted this back on its hind-legs until he could lean against the wall, stuck the violin under his chin, and with his long lean arm in a fascinating crook, he began to bow away rapturously. They were very merry tunes that Obadiah played—at least the tempo was lively and required a good many quick jerks and nods of the head, and much flirting and shaking of his long red mane to keep up with it. Occasionally his bow would glance off the strings with a very dashing effect, when he would hold it at arm’s-length, and grin with satisfaction, and wink triumphantly at Skimpy, who had come and seated himself on the steps of the porch hard by. He looked up from under the wide brim of his hat somewhat wistfully at Obadiah.