"Was this before or after the trombone players came?"

"Long after. It was after he had picked out his man and had him up
here practicing."

"Did--er--you ever--er--see this musician?" drawled Average Jones in
the slow tones of his peculiar excitement.

"Bless you, yes! Talked with him."

"What was he like?"

"He was a stupid old German. I always thought he was a sort of a
natural."

"Yes?" Average Jones peered out of the window. "Is this the man,
coming up the street?"

"It surely is," said the old lady. "Now, Mister Jones, if he
commences his blaring and blatting and--".

"There'll be no more music, ma'am," promised the young man,
laughing, as she went out to answer the door-bell.

The musician, ushered in, looked about him, an expression of
bewildered and childish surprise on his rabbit-like face.

"I am Schlichting," he murmured; "I come to play the B-flat
trombone."