Page:The Black Cat November 1916.djvu/19

Rh pounding its nose off beyond the coast of plenty. Can you add another two spot to the violin incumbrance?"

"Well, maybe," considered the pawnbroker. "Or—perhaps you'd sell the violin?"

"And perhaps I wouldn't think of anything of the kind," was the immediate reply. "Guess you don't know the soul of art that is held in bondage for want of a few dollars. No, mister, you can't appreciate the heaven of music that is imprisoned in that violin. If I sold it I would be selling all that is dear in the world to me."

The pawnbroker's face hardened and his eyes glinted covetously. "Then I can't be bothered," he answered, indifferently. "No more can I give you as a loan. To buy I'll give you a good price."

The man, taken aback by this cavalier treatment, turned and gazed ruefully toward the street. "I must have money to live," Myer heard him whisper. And then he wrung his hands, afterward passing them over his eyes as if to drive away a bad dream. Then, "Well, how much will you give?" he jerked out, desperately.

"Maybe ten or fifteen dollars," said the pawnbroker, cautiously. "I would risk the fifteen because you say it has value."

The man's answer was a sob that turned into a derisive chuckle. "Fool," he sneered, "that violin is worth thousands—indeed, is priceless. But I cannot starve—give me three hundred and I'll sacrifice it."

The pawnbroker raised his shoulders and inclined his head while an indulgent smile spread over his features. "For an old fiddle, three hundred dollars! Please don't joke in business hours."

"See here," said the man decisively, "you heard my offer. It was wrung from me by hunger—that alone. If you cannot accept it say so before another minute. I will go out among my friends; surely they will aid me to live until such time as I am able to redeem it." He paused to give the pawnbroker opportunity to think, then said, "The minute is up—what is your decision?"

The pawnbroker, still deliberating, allowed his customer to reach the door before he called him back. "Stop, stop, please," he cried. "I can—I can give you a hundred and fifty. It's all the money I have in the store. A princely offer, and one I shall not make again."

The man made as if to depart, then, as the door opened to admit another customer, he squared his shoulders, bit his lips, and moaned, "Give me the money."

Waiting only long enough to count the bills tendered him, and to surrender his pawnticket, he hastened away, his very back suggestive of a burden of lifetime regret. Myer allowed but one pang of sympathy to intrude on his self-congratulation. After all, a hundred and fifty was a bunch of money, and if the poor fellow didn't know he was selling a "Strad" he would realize that he had been well paid—when he came to think it over. "An old master!" cooed Myer to his purchase, and longed to fondle it all night.

An hour after opening up next morning, Myer went to the telephone and, thrilling under the glow of