His face is
boyish--for there is yet but the ghost of a mustache upon his lip. His
eyes are dark and clear, of over-size when looking at you, but now
their lids are drooped above his violin, whose melody has, for the
time, almost smoothed away the upward kinkings of the corners of his
mouth. And wonderfully quiet now is every one, and the chords of the
piano, too, are low and faltering; and so, at last, the tune itself
swoons into the universal hush, and--Bob is rasping, in its stead, the
ridiculous, but marvelously perfect imitation of the "priming" of a
pump, while Billy's hands forget the "chiggers" on the bare backs of
his feet, as, with clapping palms, he dances round the room in
ungovernable spasms of delight. And then we all laugh; and Billy,
taking advantage of the general tumult, pulls Bob's head down and
whispers, "Git 'em to stay up 'way late to-night!" And Bob, perhaps
remembering that we go back home to-morrow, winks at the little fellow
and whispers, "You let me manage 'em! Stay up till broad daylight if
we take a notion--eh?" And Billy dances off again in newer glee, while
the inspired musician is plunking a banjo imitation on his enchanted
instrument, which is unceremoniously drowned out by a circus-tune from
Doc that is absolutely inspiring to everyone but the barefooted
brother, who drops back listlessly to his old position on the floor
and sullenly renews operations on his "chigger" claims.
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