And with this knowledge tingling in his thoughts--and perhaps there was a bit of spring in his heart--Cutty continued on, without destination, chin jutting, eyes shining.

He was an American! He might have continued on indefinitely had he not seen obliquely a window filled with musical instruments.
Hawksley's fiddle! He had all but forgotten.

All right.

If the poor beggar wanted to scrape a fiddle, scrape it he should.

The least he, Cutty, could do would be to accede to any and every whim Hawksley expressed.