“What under heaven can Master Betty, the great genius and prodigy, an English boy twelve years old, have to do with the poor commonplace plodder Hautboy, an American of forty?”
“Oh, nothing in the least. I don’t imagine that they ever saw each other. Besides, Master Betty must be dead and buried long ere this.”
“Then why cross the ocean, and rifle the grave to drag his remains into this living discussion?”
“Absent-mindedness, I suppose. I humbly beg pardon. Proceed with your observations on Hautboy. You think he never had genius, quite too contented and happy, and fat for that—ah? You think him no pattern for men in general? affording no lesson of value to neglected merit, genius ignored, or impotent presumption rebuked?—all of which three amount to much the same thing. You admire his cheerfulness, while scorning his commonplace soul. Poor Hautboy, how sad that your very cheerfulness should, by a by-blow, bring you despite!”
“I don’t say I scorn him; you are unjust. I simply declare that he is no pattern for me.”
A sudden noise at my side attracted my ear. Turning, I saw Hautboy again, who very blithely reseated himself on the chair he had left.
“I was behind time with my engagement,” said Hautboy, “so thought I would run back and rejoin you. But come, you have sat long enough here. Let us go to my rooms. It is only five minutes’ walk.”
“If you will promise to fiddle for us, we will,” said Standard.
Fiddle! thought I—he’s a jigembob fiddler then? No wonder genius declines to measure its pace to a fiddler’s bow. My spleen was very strong on me now.
“I will gladly fiddle you your fill,” replied Hautboy to Standard. “Come on.”