Jim Spurling, Fisherman Part 33

The boys viewed this menagerie with amazement.

"Barnum & Bailey's come to town!" muttered Budge.

His craft safely moored, the man drew in a small punt which was towing astern and stepped into it. The dog followed.

"Back, Oliver!" ordered his master.

Grasping the animal by the scruff of the neck, he tossed him into the standing-room. Then he slowly sculled the punt to the beach. Jim walked down to meet him.

The stranger was of medium height, and apparently over sixty years old.

His beard and mustache were gray. He wore a black slouch-hat and a Prince Albert coat, threadbare and s.h.i.+ny, but neatly brushed. He stepped briskly ash.o.r.e, with shoulders well set back. His dark eyes carried a suggestion of melancholy, and his face was deeply lined.

"I've dropped in to make repairs," said he. "Broke my main boom in a squall about a mile north of the island, and thought I might get some one here to help me fix it."

"You did right to come," returned Jim. "We'll be glad to do anything we can, Mr.--"

"Thorpe," supplied the other. "That isn't my name, but it'll do as well as any."

"Mine's Spurling," said Jim.

They shook hands and walked up to the camp. There Jim introduced the newcomer to the other boys. Supper was about to be put on the table and the stranger was invited to share it. He accepted, and ate heartily, almost ravenously.

"Seems good to taste somebody's cooking besides your own," he apologized. "When you've summered and wintered yourself, year in and year out, the thing gets pretty monotonous and you almost hate the sight of food."

"Then you're alone most of the time?" ventured Lane.

"Not most of the time, but all the time."

The boys would have liked to inquire further, but courtesy forbade, and their guest did not volunteer anything more regarding himself. He s.h.i.+fted the conversation to Nemo.

"Bright-looking dog you've got there!" he commented.

"Yes," said Jim. "And he's fully as bright as he looks. I see you've a dog and some cats aboard."

"Yes; and they're good company--better, in some ways, than human beings, for they can't talk back. The dog's Oliver Cromwell; and the cats I've named Joan of Arc, Marie Antoinette, and Queen Victoria. I must go aboard and give 'em their suppers."

He rose from the table.

"Come back again in an hour," invited Jim, "and we'll have some music.

We've a violin here."

"I'll be more than glad to come," returned their guest. "Music's something I don't have a chance to hear very often."

Walking down the beach, he sculled out to his sloop. His animals greeted him, Oliver Cromwell vociferously, the cats with a more reserved welcome.

"What d'you make of him?" asked Percy. "Odd stick, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Jim, meditatively, "but he seems like a gentleman. What I can't understand is why he's cruising along the coast alone in that old Noah's ark. It doesn't seem natural. Besides, it's dangerous business for a man of his age. Well, it's no concern of ours. Let's give him a pleasant evening."

Promptly at the end of the allotted hour the stranger came ash.o.r.e again.

"Got the children all in bed for the night," said he. "Now I can make you a little visit with a clear conscience."

He spoke faster and more cheerfully than he had done before. The melancholy in his bearing had vanished. Jim thought he detected a slight odor of liquor about him, but he could not be sure. They all sat down together, and Throppy brought out his violin.

"What shall it be, boys?" he asked, after a preliminary tuning up.

"Give us 'The Wearing of the Green,'" suggested Lane.

Soon the wailing strains of the familiar Irish melody were breathing through the cabin. "Kathleen Mavourneen" followed, and the stranger sat as if fascinated. At "'Way Down Upon the Suwanee River" he dropped his head in his hands and his shoulders shook.

"Something livelier, Throppy," said Jim.

Stevens started in on "Dixie." As the first spirited notes came dancing off the violin their guest raised his head quickly, and before the selection was finished his cheerfulness had returned.

"Can you play 'The Campbells Are Coming'?" he inquired.

As Stevens responded with the stirring Scotch air Thorpe rose to his feet and began whistling a clear, melodious accompaniment. The notes trilled out, pure and bird-like. The boys broke into hearty applause when he finished. Their approval emboldened him to ask a favor.

"I used to play a little myself," he said; "but it's been years since I've had a bow in my hand. Would you be willing for me to see if I can recall anything? I'll be careful of your instrument."

"Sure!" cordially returned Stevens.

He handed violin and bow to Thorpe. The latter took them almost reverently. Tucking the violin under his chin, he drew the bow back and forth, at first with a lingering, uncertain touch, but soon with an increasing firmness and accuracy that bespoke an old-time skill.

Gradually he gathered confidence, and a bubbling flood of liquid music gushed from the vibrating strings.

At first he played a medley of fragments, short s.n.a.t.c.hes from old tunes, each shading imperceptibly into the one that followed, blending into a whole that chorded with the night and sea and wind and the driftwood fire crackling in the little stove in the lonely island cabin. The boys sat motionless, listening, brooding over the visions the music opened to each. They had never heard such music before. Even Percy had to acknowledge that, as he leaned breathlessly forward, eyes glued to the dancing bow.

One final, long, slow sweep, and the last notes died away, mellow and silvery as a distant bell. The musician raised his bowed head and looked about.

"More!" begged the boys.

With a nod of a.s.sent, he began "Annie Laurie." His audience sat spellbound. "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton" followed; and he closed with "Auld Lang Syne." Then he laid the violin carefully on the table and burst into tears.

For two or three minutes n.o.body spoke. Filippo was weeping silently; Percy cleared his throat; and even the other three were conscious of a slight huskiness. The evening was turning out differently from what they had antic.i.p.ated.

Brus.h.i.+ng away his tears, the stranger controlled himself with a strong effort.

"I don't know what you'll think of me, boys," said he, shamefacedly.

"I'm sorry to have made such an exhibition of myself. But music always did affect me; besides, it's wakened some old memories. Guess I'd better be going now."

He half rose.

"Stay awhile longer," urged Jim; and the others seconded the invitation.

Thorpe sank back on his box.

"You won't have to persuade me very hard. Evenings alone on the _Helen_ are pretty long."