you time to think of such things.

For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired--you might
almost say inspired separately. He stamps with his feet, he tosses his
head, he sways and swings to and fro; he has a wizened-up little face,
irresistibly comical; and, when he executes a turn or a flourish, his
brows knit and his lips work and his eyelids wink--the very ends of
his necktie bristle out. And every now and then he turns upon his
companions, nodding, signaling, beckoning frantically--with every inch
of him appealing, imploring, in behalf of the muses and their call.

For they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other two members of
the orchestra. The second violin is a Slovak, a tall, gaunt man with
black-rimmed spectacles and the mute and patient look of an overdriven
mule; he responds to the whip but feebly, and then always falls
back into his old rut. The third man is very fat, with a round, red,
sentimental nose, and he plays with his eyes turned up to the sky and a
look of infinite yearning. He is playing a bass part upon his cello,
and so the excitement is nothing to him; no matter what happens in the
treble, it is his task to saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note
after another, from four o'clock in the afternoon until nearly the same
hour next morning, for his third of the total income of one dollar per
hour.

Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszleika
has risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he is
beginning to edge over toward the tables. His nostrils are dilated and
his breath comes fast--his demons are driving him. He nods and shakes
his head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin, until at
last the long form of the second violinist also rises up. In the end