"Nonsense!" said Trafford cheerily, "Something must and will be done. Why, my good man, I've come all the way from New York to see a revolution, and do you suppose I'm going back without seeing one?"
"You'd better make a speech," suggested the stranger sarcastically.
"That's not a bad idea," said Trafford, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "but I think I've got a better one."
The stranger turned his glance on the American, a spark of interest in his gloomy eye.
"I heard a song the other night at the Eden Theatre," went on Trafford. "I think it was called the 'Rothlied.' Its effect on the audience was remarkable. Old men became boys, women went fighting mad, and officers in uniforms swore death to all. If we could get the 'Rothlied' going we'd have Father Bernhardt out of the Strafeburg in half an hour."
"Young man," said the stranger solemnly, "I'm not sure you're not a genius."
"Neither am I," said Trafford modestly. "Look here—can you sing?"
"I have a powerful baritone—and you?"
"Have the voice of a crow," said Trafford. "Also I don't know the words, and I'm not very sure of the tune."
The other repeated a few lines in Trafford's ear and hummed a few bars of the melody.