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 grave restlessness on Williams's 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. There was a faint defect in the high notes, as if his fingers did not touch the strings properly, but his bow action showed cultivation and breadth of feeling. As he struck into one of those difficult octave-leaping movements his face became savage. On the E string a squeal broke forth; he flung the violin into Sam's lap with a ferocious curse, and then extending his hands, hard, crooked to fit the axe-helve, calloused and chapped, he said to Field: "Look at my cursed hands. Lovely things to play with, ain't they?" His voice trembled with passion. He turned and went outside. As he passed Mrs. Field his head was bowed and he was uttering a groaning cry like one suffering acute physical agony. She went out quickly, and Field and Ridgeley followed. They were all moved--but the men made little of it, seeing how deeply touched she was. "That's what drink does for a man," Ridgeley said, as they watched Williams disappear down the swampers' trail. "That man has been a violinist," said Field. "What's he doing up here?" "Came up to get away from himself," Ridgeley replied. "I'm afraid he's failed," said Field, as he put his arm about his wife and led her to the sleigh.