"I will play better," was the reply.
"On Sarasate's violin--well, of course."
"Not only because it is Sarasate's violin, 'Kowadji'!"
"Kowadji! Oh, come now, you may be a Gipsy, but that doesn't mean that
you're an Egyptian or an Arab. Why Arabic--why 'kowadji'?"
The other shrugged his shoulders. "Who can tell I speak many languages. I
do not like the Mister. It is ugly in the ear. Monsieur, signor, effendi,
kowadji, they have some respect in them."
"You wanted to pay me respect, eh?"
"You have Sarasate's violin!"
"I have a lot of things I could do without."
"Could you do without the Sarasate?"
"Long enough to hear you play it, Mr.--what is your name, may I ask?"
"My name is Jethro Fawe."
"Well, Jethro Fawe, my Romany 'chal', you shall show me what a violin can
do."
"You know the Romany lingo?" Jethro asked, as Ingolby went over to the
violin-case.
"A little--just a little."
"When did you learn it?" There was a sudden savage rage in Jethro's
heart, for he imagined Fleda had taught Ingolby.
"Many a year ago when I could learn anything and remember anything and
forget anything." Ingolby sighed. "But that doesn't matter, for I know
only a dozen words or so, and they won't carry me far."
He turned the violin over in his hands.
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