“No!” said Average Jones, as the other stretched out a hopeful hand.
“He liked it—Egypt,” said the German wistfully. “He said: ‘Bravo! Encore! Bis!’ Sometimes nine, sometimes ten times over I play it, the chorus.”
“And then he sent you home?”
“Then sometimes something goes ‘sping-g-g-g-g!’ like that in the back room. Then he comes out and I may go home.”
“Um—m,” muttered Average Jones discontentedly. “When did you begin to play in the street?”
“After a long time. He take me away to Brooklyn and tell me, ‘When you see the feet iss in the window you play hard!’”
There was a long pause. Then Average Jones asked casually:
“Did you ever notice a big easy chair here?”
“I do not notice nothing. I play my B-flat trombone.”
And there his limitations were established. But the old lady had something to add.