“What’ll you have? What do you know?” queried Donald calmly, without turning from the piano. “Florodora? San Toy? The Geisha? Mikado? The Cingalee? Pinafore?”
Walter’s expressive eyebrows went up. “Oh, you do know something in that line? How odd. Let’s see—! Give us that snappy thing from Pinafore! It’s called ‘Tell me, pretty maiden, are there any more at home like you?’” A snort of disgust was barely stifled by Judson, and without a smile on his face, Donald remarked, “That’s from Florodora!” And he played the song from memory while Helena sang. For a while he remained at the piano running off several well-known pieces, and occasionally he carolled the words. He was playing and singing for a purpose. He wanted to show Mr. Moodey—whom he looked upon as a rival for the affections of Ruth Nickerson—that he was quite at home in the culture that was supposed to be Mr. Moodey’s, and he also wanted to impress Ruth that Mr. Moodey had nothing on him when it came to social accomplishments. Were it not for the wretched clothes he was wearing and which had taken a lot of his self-assurance away from him, he could have crossed swords with the other youth in anything.
Ruth was warming up to him again, and several times she asked him to sing and play pieces which she selected from Helena’s music cabinet, and Donald played them with a great deal of pleasure. Mr. Moodey’s star was going down a little and he knew it, and Donald knew it. Both youths were carrying on a subtle duel of wits which the girls were not aware of, though Judson, keen judge of human nature that he was, reclined on the sofa lazily and mentally seconded and applauded his young protégé.
When Donald had played a number of pieces—purposely working in snatches from “Il Trovatore,” the sextette from “Lucia” and other well-known airs popular among people who appreciate real music—Ruth called to him. “Come over and have a rest, Donald,” she said sweetly. “You’ve been doing the lion’s share of the entertaining and we’ve enjoyed it immensely. I cannot understand how you can play so well from memory and with such little practice, and it is too bad that your talents should be lost to your friends by your going off to sea for the best part of your life.” She gave him an admiring glance from her blue eyes and McKenzie felt very happy. His little bit of “swank” was evidently worth the effort, for she had called him by his first name again, and his youthful heart fluttered. Moodey was quick to note the familiar appellation too, and he felt that he must do something to pull his stock up to par.
“Er—Ruth,” he said. “You’re coming down to the game to-morrow afternoon, aren’t you? We’re playing Acadiaville for the championship and it’ll be a tough game to-morrow afternoon, aren’t you? We’re playing ball, McKenzie?”
“I used to play a bit while at school in Scotland.”
“Rugby?”
“No! Soccer—Association.”
“Oh,” Walter gave a half-sneer. “That’s a kid’s game. We play Rugby.”