"I won't always be an expense at home, and have dad keep me as if I
were a girl," Archie would tell himself on his good strong days when
he felt he had accomplished something with his violin. "I can feel
the music growing right in my fingers. I feel I'll play to thousands
yet--thousands of people and thousands of dollars." Then perhaps a fit
of coughing would come on, and the boy would grow discouraged again,
but only until Hock appeared on his daily round, and plumping his
sturdy person into a chair would tell all the news, and finish with,
"Say, Arch, fiddle for a fellow, won't you?"
And while Archie played, Hock would sit quietly looking out of
the window, vowing to himself he would give up slang, and go to
Sunday-school regularly, and not shoot craps any more behind the barn
with boys his father had expressed a wish not to have around the place.
In after years Hock knew what made him have these good impulses while
he listened to Archie's playing. He knew that a great and beautiful
art--the art of music--was inborn in his chum; that the wild,
melancholy voice of the violin was bringing out the best in them both.
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