window of the Linder mansion, and rested. He moved forward.
Opposite the window he paused. He raised the mouthpiece to his lips
and embarked on a perilous sea of notes from which the tutored ear
might have inferred that once popular ditty, Egypt.

Love of music was not one of the Honorable William Linder's
attributes. An irascible temper was. Of all instruments the B-flat
trombone possesses the most nerve-jarring tone. The master of the
mansion leaped from his restful chair. Where his feet had
ornamented the coping his face now appeared. Far out he leaned, and
roared at the musician below. The brass throat blared back at him,
while the soloist, his eyes closed in the ecstasy of art, brought
the "verse" part of his selection to an excruciating conclusion,
half a tone below pitch. Before the chorus there was a brief pause
for effect. In this pause, from Mr. Linder's open face a voice fell
like a falling star. Although it did not cry "Excelsior," its
output of vocables might have been mistaken, by a casual ear, for
that clarion call. What the Honorable Mr. Linder actually shouted
was:

"Getthehelloutofhere!"

The performer upturned a mild and vacant face. "What you say?" he
inquired in a softly Teutonic accent.

The Honorable William Linder made urgent gestures, like a brakeman.

"Go away! Move on!"

The musician smiled reassuringly.