“Gee, that thing must be suffering horribly,” he said once as he wriggled into his pyjamas. “Oughtn’t you to put it out of its misery, partner?”
“Oh, shut up,” gasped Alvin, rather short of breath. “I’ve got a right to play this.”
“Sure, you have! I don’t dispute it, partner. But let me tell you that many a man has perished for the right before this.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” replied Alvin, scowling blackly. “I’ve got you where I want you, Crail. Just you get gay with me and see what happens.”
“Yes, and just you let anything happen and see me get gay with you,” answered Monty grimly, as he crawled into bed. Alvin muttered a moment and then started off again. Monty bore it for five minutes. Then he stifled a groan and said: “For the love of mud, Standart, don’t torture the poor thing! Kill it, if you want to, but don’t let it suffer. Besides, hombre, it’s nearly ten o’clock and I want to go to sleep.”
“Go ahead and sleep,” said Alvin triumphantly. “I’ve got a right to play this until ten, and I’m going to.”
“Do you call that playing?” demanded Monty peevishly. “What do you think work is, then? Isn’t there any—any music in it? Isn’t there some note you haven’t found that doesn’t sound like Sam Hill?”
“It’s all music,” answered Alvin in superior tones. “I’m playing it the way it’s written.”
“Gee, did somebody write that?” asked Monty incredulously. “What’s the composer’s name, Standart? Does he live around here? Could I reach him tonight?”
“Forget it,” growled the other. “You’re not funny.”