"Fetch the coat with you to luncheon. I shall order some moth-balls, and after we've stuffed it full of them, we'll put the poor thing away for a long, long siesta. It shall be like the anaconda. I have a fine cedar chest—"
But Mr. Bramble was speaking from the bottom of the steps.
"And the unfeeling brutes may resort to violence. They often do. They have been known to inflict serious injury upon—"
"Tonight I shall play at Spangler's," cried de Bosky, slapping his chest. "In a red coat,—and I shall not speak the English language. I am the recent importation from Budapesth. So! I am come especially to direct the orchestra—at great expense! In big letters on the menu card it shall be printed that I am late of the Royal Hungarian Orchestra, and at the greatest expense have I been secured. The newspapers shall say that I came across the ocean in a special steamer, all at Monsieur Spangler's expense. I and my red coat! So! Come tonight, my friend. Come and hear the great de Bosky in his little red coat,—and—"
"Do not forget that you are to return for luncheon," sang out M. Mirabeau from the top of the stairs.
There were tears in de Bosky's eyes. "God bless you both," he cried. "But for you I should have starved to death,—as long ago as last week. God bless you!"
His frail body swayed a little as he made his way down the length of the shop. Commanding all his strength of will, he squared his shoulders and stiffened his trembling knees, but not soon enough to delude the observing Mr. Bramble, who hurried after him, peering anxiously through his horn-rimmed spectacles.
"It is just like you foreigners," he said, overtaking the violinist near the door, and speaking with some energy. "Just like you, I say, to forget to eat breakfast when you are excited. You did not have a bite of breakfast, now did you? Up and out, all excited and eager, forgetting everything but—I say, Mirabeau, lend a hand! He is ready to drop. God bless my soul! Brace up, your highness,—I should say old chap—brace up! Damme, sir, what possessed you to refuse our invitation to dine with us last night? And it was the third time within the week. Answer me that, sir!"
De Bosky sat weakly, limply, pathetically, before the two old men. They had led him to a chair at the back of the shop. Both were regarding him with justifiable severity. He smiled wanly as he passed his hand over his moist, pallid brow.
"You are poor men. Why,—why should I become a charge upon you?"