“Goin’ to do it again, is he?” said Uncle William. “Now that’s good of him, ain’t it? But I should think he’d kind o’ like to. I’d like to do it myself if I could.”
“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest!” rolled out the voice.
“He gets the spirit of it,” said the old gentleman when the song had ended and the applause had subsided.
“Jest so. I’ve been there myself—come within an ace o’ havin’ my chest set on once. They was all fightin’ drunk, too—jest like that. Gives ye the same kind o’ feelin’s—creepy and shivery-like. What’s he goin’ to do?” A long-haired youth had appeared on the platform. He approached the piano and stood looking at it thoughtfully, his head a little to one side.
“It’s Flanders. He plays the MacDowell—the ’Wandering Iceberg,’ you know.”
“H’m-m.” Uncle William took down his spectacles to look at the youth through them. “You think he can do it all right? He ain’t very hefty.”
The youth had seated himself. He struck a heavy, thundering chord on the keys and subsided. His hands hung relaxed at his sides and his eyes were fixed dreamily on the wall before him.
“Has he got her started?” It was a loud whisper from Uncle William.
The old gentleman shook his head.
Uncle William waited patiently. There was a gentle trickle on the keys—and another. Then a pause and more trickles—then some galloping notes, with heavy work in the bass.