I drew the cork as I spoke, placed my private brand upon the table, found my pipe and sat down facing my strange guest.
He proceeded to shame me by indulging in a very liberal potation, smacking his lips with greatest zest at its conclusion, and winking across at me in a manner intended to indicate his superiority.
"Where's your fiddle?" I asked; not that I cared especially, but it was incumbent upon me to be agreeable.
The Satyr jerked a grimy thumb toward the window which had just admitted him.
"Out thur on th' binch. 'S wropped up 'n' th' jew won't hurt it."
In the short silence which followed, we got our pipes to going.
"Was that you whistling a while ago?" I continued, after waiting vainly for my visitor to say something voluntarily.
"That's me a-play'n'."
"Playing?"
"Yes, play'n' a reed. Fus' thing ever I got music out o'."