"You are like me, Mr.
Writer," said he; "you don't like to be cooped up in-doors."
"I wish I could play the fiddle like you, my fine fellow."
"Ah, you can't do that all in a minute; see the time I have been at
it."
"Ah, to be sure, I forgot your antiquity."
"And it isn't the time only; it's giving your mind to it, old chap."
"What, you don't give your mind to your books, then, as you do to your
fiddle, _young gentleman?"_
"Not such a flat. Why, lookee here, governor, if you go and give your
mind to a thing you don't like, it's always time wasted, because some
other chap, that does like it, will beat you, and what's the use
working for to be beat?"
"'For' is redundant," objected Rolfe.
"But if you stick hard to the things you like, you do 'em downright
well. But old people are such fools, they always drive you the wrong
way. They make the gals play music six hours a day, and you might as
well set the hen bullfinches to pipe. Look at the gals as come here,
how they rattle up and down the piano, and can't make it sing a morsel.
Why, they _couldn't_ rattle like that, if they'd music in their skins,
d--n 'em; and they drive me to those stupid books, because I'm all for
music and moonshine. Can you keep a secret?"
"As the tomb."
"Well, then, I can do plenty of things well, besides fiddling; I can
set a wire with any poacher in the parish.
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