June 1, 1844, Saturday. (Same day.)

After supper, Jim took up his fiddle and headed over to the Jefferson House, one of the four taverns in town. It was Saturday night, and the dance crowd would be gathering. These were definitely the people who didn't get tickets from the Presbyterians. Which was one reason Jim wasn't very regretful at not being asked to join the Presbyterians: even though the juggernaut of total abstinence had not yet rolled over western Pennsylvania, and even the minister liked a 'drop of the craythur' now and again, the Presbyterians still expected you to be serious and sober.

Jim, on the other hand, liked to sing, dance, and frolic. For this reason, too, he wasn't interested in attending Quaker meeting. Quakers were lovely people, but they didn't sing in their church. Anyway, Saturday night was music night, in his opinion. It was also the night for him to go and learn from a real master fiddler.

Jim was early, but the master fiddler was earlier. George Hayes, who was what well-behaved people back then called a 'coloured gentleman', was rosining his bow as Jim came in. He smiled.

'Come to play with me?' he asked.

Jim nodded. 'If you'll let me. I've been practising.'

Hayes nodded. 'Let me hear some.' And Jim played him the tune he'd been practising, 'Bonaparte's Retreat'. Hayes listened carefully, and gave him a few pointers.

'Keep workin', son, you've got the makin's.'

Gradually, the room filled up with customers: men, women, even some older children. Mr Dougherty and his wife, and some of the Gallaghers, too, came over to share in the jollification at the 'rival' tavern. A hot meal of stew and cornbread was served from the indoor kitchen.

People wanted to hear good fiddle music, and George Hayes didn't disappoint. He demonstrated virtuosity which would not have disgraced a more sophisticated stage: George could play with either hand. He could play behind his back. Jim just played rhythm and did his best to keep up. People clapped along and called out requests. A bit of small beer for the ladies, and a glass of whiskey for the men, and inhibitions were shed enough that couples took to the dance floor. The fiddlers played faster and harder, and Jim got quite a workout. As for George Hayes, he was in his element.

The evening flew by. Somebody passed the hat, and the fiddlers shared the pennies they took in. Jim refused to take a half share. 'You can give me more when I've earned it, George. But I ain't never goin' to be as good as you.'

'Don't sell yourself short,' was George's reply, but he took the two-thirds share gratefully, because he had a family to feed.

As the two musicians were walking homeward down Main Street, they saw Jeff Wheelock come staggering towards them. He was big as a cow barn, and twice as smelly, an ignorant sort of ruffian who spent most of his time out hunting and came into town on Saturday nights to drink and cause trouble. Right now, he was drunk as a skunk and spoiling for a fight. Unfortunately, there wasn't anybody else on the street right now. Jim grabbed George's arm and tried to steer him down an alley, but Jeff had already spotted them. He grinned a nasty grin.

'Hey, what do I see there? A [word deleted]¹. What are you doin' on a public street, hey? Why don't you go back where you came from, [same word deleted]?'

Jim was seething, but George replied calmly, 'You think I should go back to Westmoreland County? That's where I came from.' He handed his fiddle case to Jim, who quickly slipped it into his knapsack along with his own – and laid them carefully atop a nearby barrel. Then he watched George to see what he'd do next.

'I'll fix you, you [expletive deleted] ol' [word deleted]. Jes' see iff'n I don't!' And he advanced on George, fists like cured hams raised menacingly.

George didn't take his eyes off Jeff. He got in front of him, just out of reach, and moved backwards slowly (Jeff was too drunk to move too fast) and sidling his way across the street toward the front of the blacksmith's shop. Jim saw where he was going, and followed along behind Jeff, who was too drunk, and too contemptuous of Jim's size, to pay any attention to him.

'Come on and fight me, [word deleted]. I aim to fight somebody tonight, might as well be you!' And Jeff lunged forward, with a swing and a miss.

George, who was light on his feet, sidestepped the attempted blow, which came, as he'd planned, exactly where he wanted it to – right in front of a large, full rain barrel. Which George had known was there. Which Jeff didn't. Which it was too dark to see. Jim was waiting: when Jeff leaned forward, Jim gave him a shove from behind, and…in he went, headfirst into the rain barrel. With a satisfying splash.

'He won't drown, will he?' gasped Jim as they grabbed their instruments and ran all the way to the Peace and Poverty.

'Naw, he ain't that drunk,' was George's opinion. 'And the barrel ain't that big.' Sure enough, from down the street, they heard the sound of barrel staves bursting apart, and of mighty cursing. 'See? Told you,' said George.

Just to be on the safe side, George stayed with Jim overnight, and went home to his family in the early morning, when dangerous drunks were busy sleeping it off.

Dmitri Gheorgheni