"In how many pieces do you wish it rendered?" asked Potts sweetly, striking the key on his Jews harp.
"Makes no difference,—just so it's rendered."
Pole and Potts now assumed a serious air, eyed each other soberly, and prepared to play.
"One, two, three! One, two, three! One, two, three! Play!" cried Pole, waving his arms wildly. Potts started in but missed the key by at least three notes. Pole gave Potts a handicap, then started in to catch up. The discord was very displeasing.
"Kill it!"
"That's the last rose of summer that I want to hear!"
"Enough!"
Potts was forced to stop through laughing, but Pole kept on until strong hands compelled him to cease.
"It's a pity you fellows can't appreciate real music," pouted Pole,
"I'm severely wounded. I shall never play for you again."
"Thank heaven!" breathed someone, evidently much relieved.