At once the whole gang was whirling about in a mad sort of dance.

“Concert’s over!” Jack exclaimed at last, tucking the violin under his arm. “Tomorrow we fight.”

“Tomorrow we fight! Tomorrow we fight!” came echoing back. And so the party broke up.

Jack had the precious violin, acquired in such a strange manner, tucked under his arm as he and Stew strode down the deck toward the ladder that led to a night’s repose.

As they rounded a life raft someone blinked a faint light upon them. “Oh! It’s you, Jack?” It was the Commander who spoke. He was off for a cup of coffee.

“Ay, ay, sir.” Jack grinned.

“Got a violin?” The Commander halted. “Weren’t you playing back there on the deck?”

“I’m afraid I was, sir,” Jack admitted. “Trying to play, I mean. You see, sir, I haven’t touched a violin in months. It—well—it didn’t seem to fit in with my program. You see, sir, I really worked at my fiddling from the time I was eight. Then—well, you know.”

“Sure, I know. The war came along. And you went all out for Uncle Sam.”

“Something like that, sir,” Jack agreed.

“That’s the proper spirit,” the Commander approved. “But let me tell you something, son. You’ll be a better flier longer if you go back to that violin for an hour or two every day.”

“What do you mean, sir?” The boy voiced his surprise.

“Ever draw a string tight and leave it for a long time?” the Commander asked.

“Sure did, sir.”

“What happened?”

“It snapped, sir.”

“Of course. It’s the same with fliers. It’s the fellow with one string, one thought, who snaps first. Relax, Jack my boy. Relax with your fiddle and you’ll ride through this war right into a concert hall.”

“Sounds a bit strange. But I’ll try it, sir,” Jack agreed.

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