advertisement in a German newspaper for a musician--flute or
clarinet--in a beer garden. The clock-hands had not yet reached eight
when he presented himself at the address, far uptown. He had been
unsuccessful, once or twice, in getting hearings because he had
arrived too late--these days he rose by four and had a paper fresh
and damp from the great presses, and every advertisement in it read by
five o'clock.

There were many applicants for the position, and by ten o'clock when a
youth with a red face and a hoarse voice appeared behind the wicket at
the side of the main entrance, peered out curiously at the shabby,
anxious crowd and winked derisively before he let the door swing
inwards, Herr Kreutzer was as weary as he well could be and keep
upright upon his feet; but, notwithstanding this, he had not given
ground and still held first place in the line. He had arrived at a
decision which filled his soul with dread. If he failed to get this
place he would apply to one of the great orchestras! This possibility
he thought of with a desperate dismay, for, playing thus before the
prosperous public, some traveler would be sure to see him, recognize
him, send word back to Germany and then--ah, then the deluge! He had
been sadly disappointed when he had discovered that New York is not
remote from Europe, but as cosmopolitan, almost, as London. Here, as
there, asylum only could be found in the remote resorts, unfrequented
by those with means, by travelers, by those who know good music. Ah!
he shuddered at the thought of what might happen if, some night,
forgetting his surroundings, he should play as he _could_ play in
hearing of a connoisseur. Then, certainly, discovery.

So he was very anxious to obtain this small position in the little,
far beer-garden. He was sorry for the others, but they could not have