Paul’s father had been a piano-maker. But he had been overtaken by misfortune. He made pianos for the big department stores.
But while he only made one grade of piano, he was compelled by the exigencies of his trade to stencil them with so many different names that he forgot his own. And one day, while suffering from loss of memory in this regard, he signed a name not his own to a check and was compelled to retire from business to Ossining-on-Hudson.
His father’s parting advice had been, “Never forget who you are, my boy!”
CHAPTER II. HARMONY IN A FLAT.
That evening, carrying with him a pair of wooden legs, as a pleasant surprise for the abbreviated parent, Paul called at the cosy Harlem apartment where dwelt the young girl who had so attracted his attention that morning.
As the young girl opened the door for him with a glad cry, Paul proffered the wooden legs. “These are for your father,” he said; “he has a heart of oak, I know, and now he will have legs to match.”
“Bless you, young sir,” cried the father of the girl. “This will place me on a better footing with the world! And should I die they will be a legacy for both of you. And now, thank gracious! I can play the pianola!”
“The grateful father adjusted the artificial limbs and was soon playing Handel with his feet.”