"If I was you, George," continued the merciless Harvey; "I'd lay for that
Rollin. Gad, I'd set a match to his hair. I'd nettle him!"
"I'd show him his p-p-place!" stammered Ned Vickery, with considerable
warmth.
"_I_ would, certainly," reiterated the automatic Lovell "I'd show him his
place, you know; _I_ would certainly."
The big veins swollen out in George Giver's forehead knitted themselves
there for an instant sternly.
"I don't interfere with no man's business," said he. "So long as he means
honorable, and car'ies out his actions fa'r and squar', I don't begrudge
him his chance nor meddle in his affa'rs."
Our attention was suddenly diverted from this subject, which was
evidently growing to be a painful one to one of the company, by the sound
of a violin played with, singular skill and correctness just outside the
window.
"Glory, there's Lute!" exclaimed Harvey, bounding ecstatically from his
chair.
"Come in, Lute, come in?" he shouted; "and show us what can be got out of
a fiddle!"
"Let him alone," said George Olver, but the group had already vanished
through the door, Lovell following mechanically.
"That's Lute Cradlebow fiddlin' out thar'," George Olver explained to me.
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