"I like a fiddle best; I can play one too," said Nat, getting
confidential on this attractive subject.

"Can you?" and Tommy stared over the rim of his mug with round
eyes, full of interest. "Mr. Bhaer's got an old fiddle, and he'll let
you play on it if you want to."

"Could I? Oh, I would like it ever so much. You see, I used to go
round fiddling with my father, and another man, till he died."

"Wasn't that fun?" cried Tommy, much impressed.

"No, it was horrid; so cold in winter, and hot in summer. And I got
tired; and they were cross sometimes; and I didn't get enough to
eat." Nat paused to take a generous bite of gingerbread, as if to
assure himself that the hard times were over; and then he added
regretfully: "But I did love my little fiddle, and I miss it. Nicolo
took it away when father died, and wouldn't have me any longer,
'cause I was sick."

"You'll belong to the band if you play good. See if you don't."

"Do you have a band here?" Nat's eyes sparkled.

"Guess we do; a jolly band, all boys; and they have concerts and
things. You just see what happens to-morrow night."

After this pleasantly exciting remark, Tommy returned to his
supper, and Nat sank into a blissful reverie over his full plate.