Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Dave Morgan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
By
Author of
Under the Rose, Half a Chance,
The Social Bucaneer, Etc.
1912
"Well? What can I do for you?"
The speaker—a scrubby little man—wheeled in the rickety office chairto regard some one hesitating on his threshold. The tones were notagreeable; the proprietor of the diminutive, run-down establishment,"The St. Cecilia Music Emporium," was not, for certain well definedreasons, in an amiable mood that morning. He had been about to reachdown for a little brown jug which reposed on the spot usually allottedto the waste paper basket when the shadow of the new-comer fellobtrusively, not to say offensively, upon him.
It was not a reassuring shadow; it seemed to spring from anindeterminate personality. Mr. Kerry Mackintosh repeated his questionmore bruskly; the shadow (obviously not a customer,—no one ever soughtMr. Mackintosh's wares!) started; his face showed signs of a vacillatingpurpose.
"A mistake! Beg pardon!" he murmured with exquisite politeness and beganto back out, when a somewhat brutal command on the other's part to "shutthat d—— door d—— quick, and not let any more d—— hot air out"arrested the visitor's purpose. Instead of retreating, he advanced.
"I beg pardon, were you addressing me?" he asked. The half apologeticlook had quite vanished.
The other considered, muttered at length in an aggrieved tone somethingabout hot air escaping and coal six dollars a ton, and ended with: "Whatdo you want?"
"Work." The visitor's tone relapsed; it was now conspicuous for its wantof "success waves"; it seemed to imply a definite cognizance ofpersonal uselessness. He who had brightened a moment before now spokelike an automaton. Mr. Mackintosh looked at him and his shabby garments.He had a contempt for shabby garments—on others!
"Good day!" he said curtly.
But instead of going, the person coolly sat down. The proprietor of thelittle shop glanced toward the door and half started from his chair.Whereupon the visitor smiled; he had a charming smile in these momentsof calm equipoise, it gave one an impression of potential possibilities.Mr. Mackintosh sank back into his chair.
"Too great a waste of energy!" he murmured, and having thus defined hisattitude, turned to a "proof" of new rag-time. This he surveyeddiscontentedly; struck out a note here, jabbed in another there. Thestranger watched him at first casually. By sundry signs the caller'sfine resolution and assurance seemed slowly oozing from him; perhaps hebegan to have doubts as to the correctness of his position, thus tostorm a man in his own castle, or office—even if it were such adisreputable-appearing office!
He shifted his feet thoughtfully; a thin lock of dark hair drooped moreuncertainly over his brow; he got up. The composer dashed a blitheflourish to the tail of a note.
"Hold on," he said. "What's your hurry?" Sarcastically.
"Didn't know I was in a hurry!" There was no atte