Promptly at the end of the allotted hour the stranger came ashore again.
"Got the children all in bed for the night," said he. "Now I can make you a little visit with a clear conscience."
He spoke faster and more cheerfully than he had done before. The melancholy in his bearing had vanished. Jim thought he detected a slight odor of liquor about him, but he could not be sure. They all sat down together, and Throppy brought out his violin.
"What shall it be, boys?" he asked, after a preliminary tuning up.
"Give us 'The Wearing of the Green,'" suggested Lane.
Soon the wailing strains of the familiar Irish melody were breathing through the cabin. "Kathleen Mavourneen" followed, and the stranger sat as if fascinated. At "'Way Down Upon the Suwanee River" he dropped his head in his hands and his shoulders shook.
Stevens started in on "Dixie." As the first spirited notes came dancing off the violin their guest raised his head quickly, and before the selection was finished his cheerfulness had returned.
"Can you play 'The Campbells Are Coming'?" he inquired.
As Stevens responded with the stirring Scotch air Thorpe rose to his feet and began whistling a clear, melodious accompaniment. The notes trilled out, pure and bird-like. The boys broke into hearty applause when he finished. Their approval emboldened him to ask a favor.
"I used to play a little myself," he said; "but it's been years since I've had a bow in my hand. Would you be willing for me to see if I can recall anything? I'll be careful of your instrument."
He handed violin and bow to Thorpe. The latter took them almost reverently. Tucking the violin under his chin, he drew the bow back and forth, at first with a lingering, uncertain touch, but soon with an increasing firmness and accuracy that bespoke an old-time skill. Gradually he gathered confidence, and a bubbling flood of liquid music gushed from the vibrating strings.
At first he played a medley of fragments, short snatches from old tunes, each shading imperceptibly into the one that followed, blending into a whole that chorded with the night and sea and wind and the driftwood fire crackling in the little stove in the lonely island cabin. The boys sat motionless, listening, brooding over the visions the music opened to each. They had never heard such music before. Even Percy had to acknowledge that, as he leaned breathlessly forward, eyes glued to the dancing bow.