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"Can you play on the fiddle?" she demanded. The small, elderly man in the neat, black suit lifted his head and smiled at her over his glasses. "Yes, my little friend," he said in a low, refined voice, "I will play for you to dance sometime. You would like that? Yes?" Nance regarded him gravely. "Say, are you a Polock or a Dago?" she asked. He gave an amused shrug. "I am neither. My name is Mr.
Jawn, whin I read about thim poor people down in St. Looey, sthruck be th' wrath iv Hivin' without more warnin' thin a man gets in a Polock church fight an' swept to their graves be th' hundherds, me heart ached in me. "But they'se always some compinsation in th' likes iv this.
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