It was a wild, eerie Hungarian air, that wailed
and whispered like a lost child, then mounted up, up, louder, louder, a
perfect hurricane of melody, when--suddenly a sharp crack like a pistol
shot cut the air. The music ceased--one of the violin strings had
snapped. At another time the great man would have finished the number on
the three remaining strings, but the heat, the lax practice of a holiday
season--something, or perhaps everything combined, for the instant
overcame him. He stood like an awkward child, gazing down at the
trailing, useless string.
Instantly, Archie's sensitive brain grasped the whole situation.
Ventnor's business manager was not with him; he had not brought a second
violin. Like a flash Archie whipped his own out of its case. He had just
come from his lesson; it was in perfect tune. Before the shy, frail boy
knew what he was actually doing he was beside the footlights, handing
his own violin up to the great master, whose wonderful eyes gazed down
into the small, pale face, and whose hand immediately reached out,
grasping the poor, cheap little fiddle that Archie had learned his
scales on.
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