He spoke to the boy again, evidently putting a meaning question, for again the other responded with ardour, using his hands to emphasize his assertion—for assertion it plainly was.
Louis laughed. "He say ze countree of Franz Liszt know no poor museeck. He named for Franz Liszt. He play beeg museeck for you and ze ladee last night. So?"
"He did—and took us off our feet. Tell him, will you?"
"He no un'erstand," laughed Louis, "eef I tell him 'off de feet.'"
"That's so—no American idioms yet for him, eh? Well, say he made us very happy with his wonderful music. I'll wager that will get over to him."
Plainly it did, to judge by the eloquence of Franz's eyes and his joyous smile. With quick speech he responded.
"He say," reported Louis, "he vant to vork for you. No wagees till he plees you. He do anyting. You van' heem?"
"Well, I'll have to think about that," Burns temporized. "But tell him not to worry. We'll find a job before we let him go. He ought to play in a restaurant or theatre, oughtn't he, Louis?"
Louis shook his head. "More men nor places," he said. "But ve see—ve see."
"All right. Now ask him how he came to stand in front of my house in the storm and fiddle."