The friendship between Hock and Archie was the wonder of the town.  Some people said, “Hock is so coarse and loud and slangy, I don’t see how Archie Anderson can have anything to do with him.”  Others said:  “Archie is so frail and sensitive, and so wrapped up in his music, how can Hock find anything in him that is jolly, and boyish, and congenial?” But Hock’s people and Archie’s people knew that one supplied what the other lacked.  For so often this conversation between the two boys would be overheard.  Archie’s plaintive voice would say:  “Oh, Hock, it is so good to have you around; you make me forget that I can’t play hockey and football with the rest of the kids!  You play it for me as well as for yourself.  I’m such a dub; laid up sick half the time.”

And Hock would frequently be heard to remark:  “Say, Arch, do you know if it weren’t for you I’d grow into a regular tough.  You kind of keep me straight, and—­oh, well, straight and all that!”

And so the odd friendship went on, Hock attending his school daily—­the acknowledged leader of all the sports and mischief that existed; Archie getting to school about two days out of every five, yet managing through his hours of illness to mount week by week, month by month, up, up, up in his music.

“I won’t always be an expense at home, and have dad keep me as if I were a girl,” Archie would tell himself on his good strong days when he felt he had accomplished something with his violin.  “I can feel the music growing right in my fingers.  I feel I’ll play to thousands yet—­thousands of people and thousands of dollars.”  Then perhaps a fit of coughing would come on, and the boy would grow discouraged again, but only until Hock appeared on his daily round, and plumping his sturdy person into a chair would tell all the news, and finish with, “Say, Arch, fiddle for a fellow, won’t you?”

And while Archie played, Hock would sit quietly looking out of the window, vowing to himself he would give up slang, and go to Sunday-school regularly, and not shoot craps any more behind the barn with boys his father had expressed a wish not to have around the place.  In after years Hock knew what made him have these good impulses while he listened to Archie’s playing.  He knew that a great and beautiful art—­the art of music—­was inborn in his chum; that the wild, melancholy voice of the violin was bringing out the best in them both.

* * * * * * * *

It was summer time.  The little Canadian city where they lived, which stretched its length along the borders of the great lake, became a very popular resort for holiday makers, and many Southerners flocked to the two large hotels, seeking the cooler air of the North.  Ball and tennis matches and regattas made the little city very gay, and the season was swinging at its height when one night Hock’s burly voice heralded his legs through the window of the Anderson parlor.  Evidently he was greatly