"Are you in the real estate business?"

"I can't hear very well, and you'll have to speak at close range, Rupe."

So they put their chairs close together, and Rupert repeated his last
question.

"Yes, a man must do something; but there's nothing going on now--nothing
in our line."

Rupert looked in pity at his friend. Quite shabbily dressed he was, and
a careworn expression on his face made him look ten years older. He wore
glasses, which he pushed up on his forehead, and then took a good look
at Rupert.

"Well, well, Rupe, and where have you been keeping yourself? An' I've
had luck, I tell you--you haven't heard, perhaps?"

"No; I haven't. What's it been, Volmer?"

"Was getting fifty dollars a week leading the orchestra at the Grand in
Chicago, when I got sick. Don't know what it was, Rupe--the doctors
didn't know. Got into my ears, and that knocked me--couldn't tell one
note from another; so, of course, that let me out. Hard luck, Rupe, hard
luck. Tough world this, Rupe. Why God Almighty crams a fellow's head
full of music, and then disables him so's he can't make use of it, I
don't know--I don't know."

Rupert sympathized with his friend, and then told him of his errand. A