“That's what everybody says,” declared Lanny. “He's sick of it. You try, Kurt.”
Kurt clicked his heels and bowed; he was the son of an official in Silesia, and couldn't even imagine addressing anyone without doing that. “Mr. Shaw, we Germans count ourselves your discoverers, and it does us honor to welcome you to our soil.”
“That's better,” judged the American. “But maybe the Bürgermeister has already said it.”
“You try it then,” said Rick.
Lanny knew from his father and others that Americans said what they wanted to, and without too much ceremony. “Mr. Shaw,” he announced, “we three boys are going to dance for you in a few minutes, and we're tickled to death about it.”
“He'll know that's American, all right,” admitted Rick. “Would you dare to do it?”
“I don't know,” said Lanny. “He looks quite kind.”
The king of celebrities had started to move toward the tall white temple, and Kurt glanced quickly at his watch. “Herrgott! Three minutes to curtain!”
He bolted, with the other two at his heels. Breathless, they dashed into the robing room, where the chorus master gazed at them sternly. “It is disgraceful to be late for the Festspiel,” he declared.
But it didn't take three boys long to slip out of shirts and trousers, B.V.D.'s and sandals, and into their light dancing tunics. That they were out of breath was no matter, for there was the overture. They stole to their assigned positions on the darkened stage and squatted on the floor to wait until it was time for the rising of the curtain.