There was nothing to be done about his 'cello, they had decided early on. It had come apart at the seams somewhere south of Gibraltar (Stephen was certain Jack could have told him where, precisely, but he was equally certain it would have meant nothing to him) due to the combined effort of the oppressive heat and Stephen's own neglect. It had been disheartening to open its case and find his instrument so mangled; even more so was Jack's refusal to touch his violin, in case a similar fate befall it.

The result had been long moments of disgruntled silence while Stephen surveyed the wreckage and Jack surreptitiously checked the seams of his own instrument.

Satisfied with his own luck, Jack had said, "Have we any glue?"

"No," said Stephen. He sat down heavily on his stool.

"I don't suppose pitch--" Jack started.

"You are not tarring my 'cello," said Stephen coldly.

Jack thought about this momentarily. "No, I don't reckon that would be a good idea," he said at last.

Stephen sighed heavily. "There's nothing to be done," he said.

"No," Jack agreed, "I don't suppose there is."

 

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