"Nineteen years and four months, odd." Mr. Pity wrote it down forthwith. He capped his pen, replaced it in his vest pocket, and smiled down upon the young carpenter with such a friendly look that Viola's heart gave a leap. Perhaps, after all, the boy was to have a fair chance.
"Very well, young man." In Mr. Pity's tone was a distinct note of encouragement and approval. "If you have the best voice in Philadelphia, now is the time to prove it. Sing your best. Don't be afraid of hurting any one's feelings."
He smiled wickedly upon the fat man, who suddenly lost his composure and glanced downward rather anxiously at the deadly trap under his feet.
"As you know," continued Pity, "you must sing without notes or accompaniment, as must your opponent. His Supremity is waiting. Penn, the august, will decide through him this free and democratic contest! Sing!"
There was a second's pause. Then the boy, standing above Death and before the Throne of Justice, raised his clear young voice and sang. His was a ballad of the people, unwritten, passed from mouth to mouth. It redounded in rhymes of "love" and "dove," "thee," and "me." It was sentiment-crass, vulgar, common sentiment-but the air had a certain redeeming birdlike lilt.
The tenor rose to its final high note, held it, and died away. No. 57403 bowed, stepped back one pace, and folded his arms. His face was flushed, alight, and his clear eyes looked fearlessly upward to his judge. No cheering followed, but a great sigh rose from the Numbers-a long, simultaneous exhalation, as if each man and woman had been holding breath throughout that last high, sweet note.
"Very good!" exclaimed Mr. Pity, again smiling. "There might be some criticism of your selection, but to give it is not in my province. And now, having heard this high-voiced young candidate, let us listen to his rival, our present esteemed musical director." He bowed to the hairy mountain. "His Supremity is waiting. Penn, the benevolent All-Father, will through him decide this contest. Sing!"
Straightway an aperture appeared in the black beard. White teeth flashed. A burst of sound ascended to the golden dome and rebounded therefrom, assaulting the ears of the multitude beneath. It was a cannonade in bass; the roar of awakened hungry lions; the commingled tumult of a hundred phonographs all playing bass records with rasping needles-a song intensified past endurance by a gigantic sounding board, and also-alas! — hopelessly off key. With an inaudible cry Viola clapped her small hands over her music-loving ears. She saw Sergeant 53 grinning at her, saw his lips move, but he might as well have talked in a Kansas cyclone.
The roar crescendoed to a terrible disharmonic laugh. At last Viola recognized the music he was murdering. Of all selections he had chosen the "Serenade of Mephistopheles," from Counoud's "Faust," a number demanding the most refined, sardonic, and genuinely superlative of voices for an endurable rendering.
Before he ended, Viola was sure she must fall upon the porcelain floor and writhe in anguish. Fortunately her powers of endurance were greater than she believed possible. The final burst of demoniac mirth died an awful death, and Viola's endurance received its reward. Henceforth she could appreciate the bliss of silence.