"Good," said Mr. Blink. "You'll do. Would any of my colleagues care to question this young and promising applicant, who appears to me to have thoroughly mastered modern music?"
Little Mr. Slehbell arose, and the class again trembled. They had read his How to See Music Although a Deaf Mute, and they knew that there were questions in it that could knock them out. The critic secured the list, and after hunting up the letter K, he coughed gently and asked:
"Mr. Krap is here, I hope?"
"Get into line, Billy Krap; get into line, Billy. Give him as good as he gives you; so fall into line, Billy Krap."
This was first sung by the class with antiphonal responses, then with a fugued finale, and Mr. Slehbell was considerably impressed.
"I must say," he began, "even if you do not become shining lights as music critics, you are certainly qualified to become members of an Opera Company. But where is Mr. Krap—a Bohemian, I should say, from his name."
"Isn't Slehbell marvellous on philology?" said Sanderson, and Dr. Nopkin looked shocked.
No Krap stood up, so the name of Flatbush was called. He, too, was absent, and Mr. Quelson explained in exasperated accents that these two were his prize pupils, but had begged off to umpire a game of Gregorian-chant cricket down in the village. "Ask for Palestrina McVickar," said Mr. Quelson, in an eager stage whisper.
The new man proved to be a wild-looking person, with hair on his shoulders, and it was noticeable that the class gave him no choral invitation to arise. He looked formidable, however, and you could have heard an E string snap, so intense was the silence.
"Mr. McVickar, you are an American, I presume?"