suddenly,
he groaned
aloud--he
had
thought of
Gyp's
figure
busy among
the
flowers at
home.
Missing
the right
turning,
he came in
at the
bottom of
the
street. A
fiddler in
the gutter
was
scraping
away on an
old
violin.
Fiorsen
stopped to
listen.
Poor
devil!
"Pagliacci!"
Going up
to the
man--dark,
lame, very
shabby, he
took out
some
silver,
and put
his other
hand on
the man's
shoulder.
"Brother,"
he said,
"lend me
your
fiddle.
