Tom was an overgrown, rawboned lad of some fifteen years, with stubby red hair, no eyebrows, large watery blue eyes, and a long neck with a big Adam's apple.
"I didn't mean to interrupt you, Tom," said David, in a tone of the deepest penitence. "You know that I'd rather hear you play than anything."
"Father got the thousand-dollar prize," said Tom coldly, accepting the apology for the sake of the compliment.
"Oh, Tom! I'm so glad! Hurrah!" shouted David, waving his old blue cap around his head, his face transfigured with joy, his heart leaping with a sudden hope, and now at last he would get the violin.
"What are you glad for?" said Tom, with dreadful severity. "He's my father; he's not your father;" and for the first time he bestowed a glance upon the little figure curled up on the nail keg, and bending eagerly towards him with clasped hands.
"I know he's your father, Tom, but—"
"Well, then, what are you glad for?" insisted Tom. "You're not going to get any of the money."
"I know that, Tom," said David, coloring deeply, "but—"
"Well, then, what are you glad for?"
"I don't think I'm so very glad, Tom," replied David, sorrowfully.
But Tom had taken up the bow and was rubbing the resin on it. He used a great deal of resin in his playing, and would often proudly call David's attention to how much of it would settle as a white dust under the bridge. David was too well used to Tom's rebuffs to mind them long, and as he now looked on at this resining process, the sunlight came back into his face.
