to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so
I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be
accommodating."

"Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his
earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life."

Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly
double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds
were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not
willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends
then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed
with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in
expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding
him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and
the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand
at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to
control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and
indignation that came from the lips of the girls.

"Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag
from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture.

"Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim
appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and
brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until
after the dance."

"What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned
Tobey, sticking his damaged face close to that of the fiddler.