A SHORT STORY.

Waikato Times, Volume 100, Issue 16815, 5 June 1926, Page 4

A SHORT STORY.

THE VIOLIN

(By John Inglisham.)

TTo stood In the gutter opposite old Isaac Kahn’s "feeding-shop” In the Rust,on Rond. a rtnwn-at-heol, scodylnnking urchin with long dark hair, a white face and hip brown eyes, scraping melancholy airs from a reluctant violin, which shared sympathetically the shabby appearance of its owner. For over half an hour lie had played in the bitins cold of the December morrtins, never moving out of range or the succulent odours which stole invitingly through the door of Old Isaac’s shop, and always coming back to stand opposite, and gaze into iho window, where Kahn and his wife fried thick juicy chops, fat beef sausages, bursting tomatoes and—most fragrant smell! —thinly cut slices of onion.

Over him the window seemed to exercise a strange fascination. And yet not so strange; for did not Rebecca Kahn, after watching him for some minutes as she bent over her frying, turn to her husband and remark that, “the poor feller out there looked as if ’e could do with somethin’ t’ eat. 'E’d bin phying all mornin’ and ’adn’t earned a penny”? To which Old Isaac, squinting with his small black eyes through the steamy pane and wiping with a thick and greasy forefinger a thick and greasy nose, replied that, if she thought he was going to feed every tramp who came down Ihe street she didn’t know Isaac Kahn. Ilis wife shrugged her heavy shoulders and with a glance every now and again at the fiddler went on with her frying. Not long afterwards she became aware lie had stopped playing, and a minute later he entered the shop and diffidently approached the counter.

Old Isaac fumed from the pans and fixed him with his bright little eyes, a sneer on the dnwmvard curve of his thick, blubbcry lips. “Veil, vat you vant?" “Somcthink to eat, guv’nor,” replied Iho urchin. “I'm ’ungry. ’Aven’t ’ad nolliink since yesterday mornin’. Give us a chop, guv'nor, and some o' them tomatoes.” “Give you somethin’ to eat!” expostulated Kahn indignantly. “Give you ! Vat d’you tink this is—a mission soup hitching, eh? Ynu get out and quick, or I’ll give you somethin’!"

“hook 'ere, guv’nor, I’m 'ungry—damned ’ungry,” entreated the boy. “I’ll leave my fiddle, guv’nor, if you’ll gi' me a chop or somcthink—-anylhink. An’ when I romo back for it I’ll p’y you—straight I will, guv’nor. If you’ll ”

“Clear out,you! Didn’t you ’ear me 101 l you to clear out?” shouted Kahn, his eyes glittering angrily. “Or vill i ’avc to show you ze way?” Mi's Kahn stepped forward. “Look ’ere, ike, give the boy somethin’. If ’e leaves ’is viddle you won’t lose nothin’. ’E’s ’ungry, and ze viddle’s vorth a chop.” Without a word Old Isaac took the proffered violin from the hoy, and after spending some moments in plucking the strings and scrutinising Ihe instrument, lie squinted at its while-faced owner and snapped: “Yen vill you p’y me, if I .let you leave ze viddle?" “I'll come back in a week, guv’nor. Straight, I will. If I don’t, you can sell the fiddle. I’ll ho here next Friday, guv’nor. Straight, I will.” “Very veil. I vill give you a chop and some onions. Zat vill be a shillin’. And I vill sell ze viddle if you don’t call for it next Friday. You understand?”

“Right you are, guv’nor. I gets you 0.K.,” answered the boy eagerly.

When he had left the shop—having eaten a fair-sized chop and a plateful of onions in considerably less time !)]an it had taken to cook them —Kahn lifted the violin from the counter and placed it on a shelf behind, where it shared the promiscuous company of dirty plates, salt cellars greasy vinegar bottles.

On the morning of the Wednesday following there came into the shop to purchase some sausage meat, a tall, bent-shouldered man with wtiite hair, mild grey eyes and a disarming smile. He appeared to be about 65 years ot age, and although not well dressed there was in his voice and bearing that indefinable "something” which Kahn immediately realised entitled him to be treated as a superior. As, with long-practised adroitness, Old Isaac removed the meat from the scales ere they had time to register its true weight, Ihe stranger, catching sight of the violin on the shelf abovo jlie counter, remarked pleasantly: “Aha! And who plays the violin?” “Nobody ’ere,"' answered Kahn. “Vo arc not musicians. Ze viddle was left ’ere last week.” “Really?” said the'stranger. “Would you mind if I had a look at it? lam —well—a player myself, and am naturally interested in the instrument.” •«Yy certainly you can zee it,” Old Isaac'agreed obligingly. „ With gentle hands the stranger accepted the instrument, and, after tightening the strings, started to strum on them with his Angers. Then with close attention he carefully examined the violin and suddenly gave vent lo an exclamation of surprise. With quickened interest Kahn looked up from packing the sausage meat and met the stranger’s eyes fixed intently on his face. “Where did you say this violin came from?” asked the stranger in a low voice. “I said it vas left, ’ere last veek. By a hoy—a street pl’yer. Vy?” “Why, my dear sir, do you know that the instrument is a Stradivarius —a little damaged, it is true—bid worth fifty— sixty pounds?" exclaimed the stranger excitedly. “Vat?” ejaculated Kahn, willi his mouth agape and his eyes goggling in Ids head. "Vatl Sixty pounds? Sixty pounds?" “Sixty pounds,” confirmed the stranger. “I myself will pay that for it, if you can obtain ihe owner’s permission to sell.” “Vat? You vill p’y sixty pounds for it?" Old Isaac could hardly believe his cars, and then with the traditional astuteness of his race lie. realised Liial if this mad musician was willing io pay sixty pounds for Hie violin it must be worth at least len pounds more. “Look ’ere, sir.” he said quickly, “ze viddle belongs lo me. It vas left ’ere for p’yrnent of a dinner t gave to a slrect pl’yer. lam willing io sell it to you for eighty pounds—cash." Before the stranger rould reply I here came, from Ihe curlained euIranee lo ihe hack shop, imperiously, Rebecca’s shrill nasal voice: "Isaac! Come ’ere! I vant you at voncc." Wjih a muttered excuse which sounded suspiciously ]il;e a curse, Old Isaac, lof | Ihe stranger and disappeared behind the curtains where Mrs Kalin 1 uini’il upon him excitedly. “Isaac, you cannot sell ze viddle wi thou I you gel, ze boy’s permission. II may bring in ze p’lice if you do. It’s clear ’n not know vorlh of ze viddle ’r else 'c never ’avc left it. ’ore. Veil V, calls you buy ze viddle and soli to sheniloman." As 1m realised ihe force of his wife’s argument a smile closely akin to a leer, passed over Old Isaac's foxy face.

“Very good, Rebecca. You nrc right. I vill go and tell ze shentleman." “Veil?!’ he enquired, returning to the stranger at the counter. “Vat do you say to my offer?” “Eighty pounds is too much. I will givo you seventy for the violin,” answered the gentleman. “Make it seventy-five and I vill accept,” said Kahn. “My price is seventy pounds,” replied the stranger firmly, “and not a penny more.”

“Very veil. I vill accept that,” said Kalin quickly. “Vill it be convenient for you to call for zo viddle on Monday—with zc money?" “Yes, that will suit me admirably,” replied the stranger. “On Monday morning about twelve. Meantime put Ihe violin in a sale place. It’s too valuable to be left lying about.” And, having paid for the sausage meat, he said “Good day,” and loft a much surprised and highly elated Kahn affectionately rubbing his greasy hands over the Stradi —“Vat vas it ze shentleman ’ad call it?” m.

True to his word, on the morning of the Friday following there entered the street player, with a shilling in his grubby hand. With a smile on his swarthy face Old Isaac was waiting for him. “Veil, sonny. You 'ave come for ze viddle, I suppose. It is a nice viddle and my wife she ’as taken a great vancy for it. I vill buy it from you.” “ ’Ow much, guv’nor?” the boy questioned quickly. “T’reo pounds.” “It’s no go, guv'nor, too little." “Veil, five, then. It is not vorth more.” “Five? That’s better, but I can’t sell it without my father sez so. If you’ll wait a mo’ I’ll go and arsk ’im if tic’ll take five for it.” “Vcrry veil, sonny, ’urry up.” “I won’t tike long, guv’nor,” said tho boy, turning to leave. He was back in ten minutes. “Veil?” enquired Kalin. “My dad sez as ’ow ’e won’t tike less than ten pounds for the fiddle, guv’nor.” “Ten pounds 1” expostulated Kahn. “Zat is too much. It is not vorth more’n five.” “My dad sez he won’t tike less than ten.” “Make it eight and I’ll pay zat.” “Sorry, guv’nor, but ten’s my dad’s price. ‘Cheap at the price,’ ’c says.” “Very veil, ten—but it is not vorth it,” grumbled Old Isaac as lie turned reluctantly to tho till and extracted a wad of dirty Treasury notes, rrom which he carefully counted out ten pounds. The boy received them eagerly, and with a care rivalling Kalin’s, counted them slowly. “Yus. That’s O.K. Thank you, guv’nor. It’s cheap at the price. G’d’y, guv’nor.” On Monday morning the violin was dusted and carefully packed by Rebecca in readiness for the gentleman, but the day passed, and although the shop was kept open an hour longer than usual, lie failed to put in an appearance. “ ’E’ll come to-morrow,” said Rebecca, encouragingly, “ ’E’s bin too busy to call to-d’y.” But “to-morrow” did not bring him, nor Wednesday, nor Thursday, and on Friday Old Isaac, unable to restrain himself any longer, took ttie violin down to the pawnbroker at the end of the street.

“ ’Ow much did you say you vanted for it?” asked Reubens, tho pawnbroker, after a cursory examination of the instrument. “Seventy pounds. It’s a StradiSlradi —somethin’ or other. I vas offered eighty pounds for it last veek," said Kahn. “Veil, it is a great pity you did not take it," replied Reubens drily. “I sold this viddle to a white ’aired shentleman a vortnight ago for Free shillins and sixpence.”