"Ach!" said Schubert, with a grateful sigh, "Goot—goot!" In another moment he was lost.
The talk grew louder. Hurried waiters rushed back and forth behind his chair with foaming mugs and slices of black bread, and gray and brown. Fiddles squeaked, and skittle-players shouted. Now and then the noise broke off and changed to the national air, which the band across the garden played loudly. But through it all Schubert's big head wagged absently, and his short-sighted eyes glared at the barred lines and flying pencil.
Suddenly he raised his head with a snort. His spectacles flew to his forehead, and his round face smiled genially at the laughing group.
"Done?" asked the fat young man with a smile. He reached out his hand for the scrawled page.
Schubert drew it jealously back.
"Nein," he said quickly.
Tieze, who had come around the table, stood behind them, scanning the barred lines and the scattered shower of notes. He raised a quick hand to the group about the table.
"Gott im Himmel!" he said excitedly. "Listen, you dunderheads!"
Silence fell on the group. Every glance was turned to him. He hummed softly a few bars of sweetest melody—under the garden's din.... The notes stopped in a choking gasp, Schubert's hand on his throat.
"Stop that!" he said hoarsely. The paper had been thrust loosely into his coat pocket. His face worked fiercely.