Part 1 (2/2)
”A moment!” said Mr Mackintosh ”One of my ion--”disappointedI expect he's in the lockup by this ti?”
”I really don't know; haven't ever tried, since”--a wonderful retrospection in his tones--”since I was a little chap in church and hite robes”
”Huh!” ejaculated the proprietor of the Saint Cecilia shop ”Mao” The visitor did not answer; he pushed back uncertainly the uncertain lock of dark hair and seeotten the object of his visit
”Now see here”--Mr Mackintosh's voice becaetic; he seated himself before a piano that looked as if it had led a hard no a few chords ”Suppose you try this stunt! _What's the Matter with Mother_? My own composition!
Kerry Mackintosh at his best! Noitter away, if you've any of that angel voice left!”
The piano rattled; the new-comer, with a certain faint whimsical smile as if he appreciated the humor of his position, did ”twitter away”; loud sounds filled the place Qualitybut of quantity there was a-plenty
”Bully!” cried Mr Mackintosh enthusiastically ”That'll start the tears rolling _What's the Matter with Mother_? Nothing's the o? With that voice?” He clapped his hand on the other's shoulder ”Why, man, they could hear you across Madison Square You've a voice like an organ Is it a 'go'?” he demanded
”I don't think I quite understand,” said the new-comer patiently
”You don't, eh? Look there!”
A covered wagon had at that moment stopped before the door It was drawn by a horse whose appearance, like that of the piano, spoke more eloquently of services in the past than of hopeful promises for the future On the side of the vehicle appeared in large letters: ”_What's the Matter with Mother_? Latest Melodic Triumph by America's Greatest Composer, Mr Kerry Mackintosh” A little to the left of this announcement was painted a harp, probably a reminder of the one Saint Cecilia was supposed to have played This sentinity and respectability to the otherwise disreputable vehicle of concord and its steed without wings, waiting patiently to be off--or to lie down and pay the debt of nature!
”Shall we try it again, angel voice?” asked Mr Mackintosh, playing the piano, or ”biffing the ivories,” as he called it
”Drop it,” returned the visitor, ”that 'angel' dope”
”Oh, all right! Anything to oblige”
Before this vaguely apologetic reply, the new-cohtfulness His eye passed dubiously over the vehicle of harain inclined to ”back out” Perhaps a wish that the horse _lad to!) percolated through the current of his thoughts That would offer an easy solution to the proposal he i--and accepted Of course! What alternative remained? Needs must when an ears must not be choosers?
”And now,” said Mr Mackintosh with the air of a man who had cast from his shoulders a distinct proble the other chap out What's your name?”
The visitor hesitated ”Horatio Heatherblooht one,” he said softly
”You've got the only one you'll get,” replied the caller, after an interval
Mr Mackintosh bestowed upon hi wink ”Sounds like a _nom de plume_,” he chuckled ”What was your line?”
”I don't understand”
”What did you serve ti?”
”Oh, no,” said the other cal?” With more respect in his tones
”What do you think?” queried the caller in the sah for that lay, I should have thought