“It needs tuning,” commented the clerk.
“How much is it worth, tuned?” asked my uncle.
“Fifteen dollars,” announced the clerk.
“On time, how much?” asked aunt eagerly. “We can only put in three dollars on this at first,” she said.
“Fifteen dollars on credit, at your own terms,” said the clerk, after a brief consultation with the manager in the office. “We need the room, and will be glad to get it out of the way.” “It’s ours, then,” said my uncle. “Send it down as soon as you get it tuned,” he directed.
When they told me about the purchase, uncle announced, “It will keep me at home, I hope, and away from the saloons. It will be fine to get to playing again. I miss it so. I must be all out of practise.”
When the piano did come, and it was established in the front room, I spent a whole evening in fingering it. There was only one defect about it,—when uncle played a tune, one of the keys had a fault of sticking, so that he had to lift it bodily into place, and that somewhat broke in on the melody he was engaged on.
“But what can you expect for fifteen dollars,” he commented, philosophically. “When folks are singing with it, I can skip it, an’ it won’t be noticed much.”
The advent of the piano made my days in the mill lighter to bear. My uncle had proposed to teach me to play on it at night if I would practise faithfully. He took pains to elaborate the truth that great musicians, who had come to fame in the earth, had done so only at the cost of infinite pains in practise.
“Never mind,” I responded, “I’ll learn, sure enough, and I may give lessons some day.” So, during work-hours, I was given the scale to memorize.