He held captive,
with one powerful hand, a stubbornly speechless, violently struggling
boy. I recognized the man as Godfrey Cradlebow, the handsome fiddler's
father, and the boy was none other than the imp whose eyes, scorching and
defiant now, had first sent mocking glances back at me while their
light-limbed owner kicked out a jaunty rigadoon from under the encircling
folds of his sacerdotal vestments.
"Miss Hungerford, I beg your pardon," said the elder Cradlebow, with a
distinct, refined enunciation foreign to the native element of
Wallencamp, whose ordinary locution had something of a Hoosier accent
"After a good deal of trouble in catching him, I have finally succeeded
in bringing you in this--a--this little dev"--he made an impressive
pause, patted his fiery offspring on the head with fatherly dignity, and
eyed him, at once doubtfully and reflectively.
I was interested in observing the aspect of the two faces.
"The little boy resembles you, I think," I said.
The lame man struck his cane down hard upon the floor and laughed
immoderately.
"If you knew what I had in my mind to say!" he exclaimed--"ah! that was
well put, well put!--though but dubiously complimentary, but dubiously
so, I assure you, either to father or son!"
The idea still continuing to tickle him, he laughed more gently, beating
a sympathetic tattoo with his cane on the floor.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98