The big man shook his head. "We shall not be late. There is my clock." He nodded toward the golden sun. "And I have yet another here," he added, placing a comfortable hand on his big stomach.
The boy laughed softly and lay quiet.
The man opened his lips and blew a wreath of smoke.
"There will be more than a hundred Bachs," he said slowly, "and you must play what I have taught you—not too slow and not too fast." He looked down at the boy's fat fingers. "Play like a true Bach and no other," he added.
The boy nodded. "Will Uncle Christoph be there?" he asked after a pause.
"Ja."
"And Uncle Heinrich?"
"Ja, ja!"
The boy gave a quick sigh of contentment.
His father was looking at him shrewdly. "But it is not Uncle Heinrich that will be making a player of you, and it is not Uncle Christoph. It is only Johann Sebastian Bach that can make himself a player," he said sternly.