Entering, he found every seat taken. He waited till the boat had started, and then, taking his position in the center of the rear cabin, he began to play and sing, fixing at once the attention of the passengers upon himself.
“That boy’s a nuisance; he ought not to be allowed to play on the boat,” muttered an old gentleman, looking up from the columns of the Evening Post.
“Now, papa,” said a young lady at his side, “why need you object to the poor boy? I am sure he sings very nicely. I like to hear him.”
“I don’t.”
“You know, papa, you have no taste for music. Why, you went to sleep at the opera the other evening.”
“I tried to,” said her father, in whom musical taste had a very limited development. “It was all nonsense to me.”
“He is singing the Hymn of Garibaldi. What a sweet voice he has! Such a handsome little fellow, too!”
“He has a dirty face, and his clothes are quite ragged.”
“But he has beautiful eyes; see how brilliant they are. No wonder he is dirty and ragged; it isn’t his fault, poor boy. I have no doubt he has a miserable home. I’m going to give him something.”
“Just as you like, Florence; as I am not a romantic young damsel, I shall not follow your example.”’