face will never look older (from a distance) than it did when he was
nine. The flight of years adds only deeper creases in the multitude
of fine wrinkles, and increasing difficulty in hoisting his tiny,
patent-leather foot up on his plump knee.

The second tenor leans toward him in a way to make another man
anxious about his watch, but the second tenor is as honest as the
day. He is only "blending the voices." He works in the bank. He
is going to be married in June sometime. Don't look around right
away, but she's the one in the pink shirt-waist, the second one from
the aisle, the one . . . two . . . three . . . the sixth
row back. See her? Say, they've got it bad, those two. What d'
ye think? She goes down by the bank every day at noon, so as to
walk up with him to luncheon. She lives across the street, and as
soon as ever she has finished her luncheon, there she is, out on the
front porch hallooing: "Oo-hoo!" How about that? And if he so much
as looks at another girl - m-M!

The first bass is one of these fellows with a flutter in his voice.
No, I don't mean a vibrato. It's a flutter, like a goat's tail.
It is considered real operatic.

The second bass has a great, big Adam's apple that slides up and
down his throat like a toy-monkey on a stick. He is tall, and has
eyebrows like clothes-brushes, and he scowls fit to make you run
and hide under the bed. He is really a good-hearted fellow, though.
Pity he has the dyspepsia so bad. Oh, my, yes! Suffers everything
with it, poor man. He generally sings that song about "Drink-ing!
DRINK-ang! Drink-awng!" though he's strictly temperate himself.
When he takes that last low note, you hold on to your chair for fear