He was at a
party over at Sand Bank last spring, an'--"
"Han's to yo' pahtners!" cried out Uncle Mack, as he drew his bow
across three or four strings at once, producing a harmony of bass,
alto, and treble sounds. "Salute de lady on yo' right!"
Whack!
The bridge of the fiddle had fallen. Everybody laughed over Uncle
Mack's discomfiture, as he rubbed the rosin out of his eyes and
grunted, half amused, half vexed at the accident. He held the violin
between his knees and proceeded to adjust the bridge.
"You were telling me why that fellow keeps on his hat," Westerfelt
reminded his partner.
"Oh yes!" laughed the girl, "that's so. Toot's never satisfied if he
ain't in a row o' some sort. He will always manage to pick a quarrel
out of something. He's mighty troublesome, especially when he's
drinkin'. He was pretty full over there that night, an' kept dancin'
with his hat on. Mis' Lumpkin, who give the dance, asked 'im quietly
to take it off an' behave like a gentleman. That made 'im mad, an' he
swore he'd die first. Then some o' the boys tuk Mis' Lumpkin's part,
an' tol' 'im the hat would come off ur he'd go out.
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