"This ought to do a bit more than
the cotton-field fiddle," he said dryly.
He snapped the strings, looking at it with the love of the natural
connoisseur. "Finish your drink and your cigarette. I can wait," he added
graciously. "If you like the cigarettes, you must take some away with
you. You don't drink much, that's clear, therefore you must smoke. Every
man has some vice or other, if it's only hanging on to virtue too tight."
He laughed eagerly. Strange that he should have a feeling of greater
companionship for a vagabond like this than for most people he met. Was
it some temperamental thing in him? "Dago," as he called the Romany
inwardly, there was still a bond between them. They understood the glory
of a little instrument like this, and could forget the world in the light
on a great picture. There was something in the air they breathed which
gave them easier understanding of each other and of the world.
Suddenly with a toss Jethro drained the glass of spirit, though he had
not meant to do so. He puffed the cigarette an instant longer, then threw
it on the floor, and was about to put his foot on it, when Ingolby
stopped him.
"I'm a slave," he said. "I've got a master. It's Jim. Jim's a hard
master, too. He'd give me fits if we ground our cigarette ashes into the
carpet.
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