62 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
be holding down the job you are. But my feeling 
was a little more than mere inquisitiveness. It’s 
fairly evident that you must have had some hard 
luck, and I suppose I wanted to find out what the 
trouble was, and try to understand, if I could—and 
perhaps help, if that was possible. That was what 
was in my mind.”’ 
Ewing smoked in silence for a moment. 
‘Damn it!’’ he burst out, ‘‘there’s no reason why 
you shouldn’t know. I’d like to tell you.’’ 
He talked for a long time, unconscious of the pass- 
ing moments. Bit by bit the snarl of his unhappy 
history was untangled. There was no smooth nar- 
rative of events—just a halting, broken recital, stum- 
bling in the darkness, through clenched teeth. A 
story as old as the world, but new to each whose life 
it enters. 
Ewing was not his real name. His family is well- 
known. As a boy, the packer said, his talent for 
music was encouraged. He developed rapidly, and 
so long as his skill did not pass the limits of a mere 
accomplishment, the family was well content. But 
when they understood that he meant mastery of the 
violin to be his life’s work objection arose. His 
father cajoled and threatened. Dilettantism the 
gentleman understood—it was a tenet of his creed. 
Professionalism was tabooed. 
It ended in the boy’s leaving home abruptly with 
the avowed purpose of making a living by his violin. 
