"You see, it's this way, old fellow," he said confidentially. "I've
come to the conclusion that if, at the end of the third bar, Wagner
had----"

"Throw him out, throw him out!" cried an American who was sitting
opposite them. "You might as well try to stop a nigger in heat as
Krafft on Wagner."

"That's so," said another American named Ford, who, on arriving, had
not been quite sober, and now, after a few glasses of beer, was
exceedingly tipsy. "That's so. As I've always said, it's a disgrace to
the township, a disgrace, sir. Ought to be put down. Why don't he
write them himself?"

From the depths of his brown study, Krafft looked vaguely at the
speakers, and checked, but not discomposed, drew out a notebook and
jotted down an idea.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Boehmer and a Russian
violinist still harped upon the original string. And, having worked
out Schilsky, they passed on to Zeppelin, his master, and the Russian,
who was not Zeppelin's pupil, set to showing with vehemence that his
"method" was a worthless one. He was barely started when a wiry
American, in a high, grating voice, called Schilsky a wretched fool:
why had he not gone to Berlin at Easter, as he had planned, instead of
dawdling on here where he had no more to gain? At this, several of the
young men laughed and looked significant. Furst--he had proved to be a
jolly little man, who, with unbuttoned vest, absorbed large quantities
of beer and perspired freely--Furst alone was of the opinion, which he