The Ruling Passion | Page 9

Maria, gratia plena, ora pro me!"
The others did not understand what he was saying. Indeed, they paid
little attention to him. They saw he was frightened, and thought it was
with fear. They were already discussing what ought to be done about
the fracas.
It was plain that Bull Corey, whose liquor had now taken effect
suddenly, and made him as limp as a strip of cedar bark, must be
thrown out of the door, and left to cool off on the beach. But what to do
with Fiddlin' Jack for his attempt at knifing--a detested crime? He
might have gone at Bull with a gun, or with a club, or with a chair, or
with any recognized weapon. But with a carving- knife! That was a
serious offence. Arrest him, and send him to jail at the Forks? Take him
out, and duck him in the lake? Lick him, and drive him out of the
town?
There was a multitude of counsellors, but it was Hose Ransom who
settled the case. He was a well-known fighting-man, and a respected
philosopher. He swung his broad frame in front of the fiddler.
"Tell ye what we'll do. Jess nothin'! Ain't Bull Corey the blowin'est and

the mos' trouble-us cuss 'round these hull woods? And would n't it be a
fust-rate thing ef some o' the wind was let out 'n him?"
General assent greeted this pointed inquiry.
"And wa'n't Fiddlin' Jack peacerble 'nough 's long 's he was let alone?
What's the matter with lettin' him alone now?"
The argument seemed to carry weight. Hose saw his advantage, and
clinched it.
"Ain't he given us a lot o' fun here this winter in a innercent kind o' way,
with his old fiddle? I guess there ain't nothin' on airth he loves better 'n
that holler piece o' wood, and the toons that's inside o' it. It's jess like a
wife or a child to him. Where's that fiddle, anyhow?"
Some one had picked it deftly out of Corey's hand during the scuffle,
and now passed it up to Hose.
"Here, Frenchy, take yer long-necked, pot-bellied music-gourd. And I
want you boys to understand, ef any one teches that fiddle ag'in, I'll
knock hell out 'n him."
So the recording angel dropped another tear upon the record of Hosea
Ransom, and the books were closed for the night.

III
For some weeks after the incident of the violin and the carving- knife, it
looked as if a permanent cloud had settled upon the spirits of Fiddlin'
Jack. He was sad and nervous; if any one touched him, or even spoke to
him suddenly, he would jump like a deer. He kept out of everybody's
way as much as possible, sat out in the wood-shed when he was not at
work, and could not be persuaded to bring down his fiddle. He seemed
in a fair way to be transformed into "the melancholy Jaques."
It was Serena who broke the spell; and she did it in a woman's way, the

simplest way in the world--by taking no notice of it.
"Ain't you goin' to play for me to-night?" she asked one evening, as
Jacques passed through the kitchen. Whereupon the evil spirit was
exorcised, and the violin came back again to its place in the life of the
house.
But there was less time for music now than there had been in the winter.
As the snow vanished from the woods, and the frost leaked out of the
ground, and the ice on the lake was honeycombed, breaking away from
the shore, and finally going to pieces altogether in a warm southeast
storm, the Sportsmen's Retreat began to prepare for business. There
was a garden to be planted, and there were boats to be painted. The
rotten old wharf in front of the house stood badly in need of repairs.
The fiddler proved himself a Jack-of-all-trades and master of more than
one.
In the middle of May the anglers began to arrive at the Retreat--a quiet,
sociable, friendly set of men, most of whom were old-time
acquaintances, and familiar lovers of the woods. They belonged to the
"early Adirondack period," these disciples of Walton. They were not
very rich, and they did not put on much style, but they understood how
to have a good time; and what they did not know about fishing was not
worth knowing.
Jacques fitted into their scheme of life as a well-made reel fits the butt
of a good rod. He was a steady oarsman, a lucky fisherman, with a real
genius for the use of the landing-net, and a cheerful companion, who
did not insist upon giving his views about artificial flies and advice
about casting, on every occasion. By the end of June he found