12 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
his thumb backward in the general direction of the 
Sample saloon, from which, despite the time of day, 
issued unmistakable sounds of revelry. We began 
to connect the missing packer, Ewing, with Brown’s 
despondent air, and started en masse for the scene 
of action. 
Frazer called a halt. 
‘You two fellows,’’ he said, to Brown and myself, 
‘‘come with me. The rest can get the stuff over to 
the hotel and arrange for supper and rooms. We'll 
stay here to-night.’’ 
We found Ewing the centre of an admiring 
throng of cowpunchers. He was seated on a table 
in the centre of the bar room, very drunk, and 
playing a violin with remarkable skill. Frazer 
decided that there would be nothing gained by an 
untimely interruption, so we joined the audience 
and listened for an hour to as really excellent 
a performance as I have ever heard. The music 
ranged from popular airs to classical arias, from 
the ‘‘Arkansas Traveller’’ to Dvoradk’s ‘‘Humor- 
eske.’’ The crowd was delighted; now silent, spell- 
bound, now moved to the wildest enthusiasm. Ac- 
customed to the squeak of a phonograph, or the 
clumsy efforts of some local ‘‘fiddler’’ whose ambi- 
tion ceased at ‘‘Listen to the Mockingbird,’’ the 
men were enthralled by this wonder. 
‘‘Been here a week and we never knowed he could 
play a lick,’? shouted one husky cowman, regret- 
fully, ‘‘that’s what comes of a man keepin’ sober!’’ 
