more than enough to carry him and the two girls who were now dependent
on him until he should find a well paid, but not too conspicuous,
situation. He was sure of this. It had been the gossip of the little
orchestra in London that musicians, in New York, if worthy, were
always in demand; that when they played they were paid vastly. Tales
often had been told of money literally thrown to players by delighted
members of appreciative audiences--money in great rolls of bank-notes,
heavy gold-pieces, bank checks. Nowhere in the world, not even in the
music loving Fatherland, a wandering trombonist who had visited the
states had solemnly assured him, were expert performers on any sort of
instrument so well paid and so well beloved as in the city of New
York.

"You, Kreutzer," this man had said (for when musicians lie the
cultivated and exotic fancy, essential to success in their profession,
makes them lie superbly) "could, past the shadow of a doubt, win a
real fortune in a season in New York."

"Much work is waiting, eh?" said Kreutzer, eagerly. He did not wish to
win a fortune, for that would mean the larger orchestras, but he
wondered if the smaller organizations paid proportionally well.

"For such as you," the man replied, maliciously--he was a
disappointed, vicious person--"there ever is demand from large and
small."

"Why, then, did you come back to England?" the flute-player inquired.

"I? Oh, I am not an artist--a real artist, as you are," was the
answer, flattering and vicious. The man had tried to get an