Ben Dullard Krupp. Who cares who he is? His stuff won’t get far in that sheet.
Edward Morless. Of course not. I just wondered. For my part, I’ve had a terrible afternoon.
Donald Worcester. But Ed, think of tonight. You’ve got to listen to Walter Spratt’s piano-playing.
Carbon Hatchett. Do you call that playing?
Nothing seems to relieve the collective nervousness of the five judges. At the outer door, they separate. Ben Dullard Krupp makes his way to McChug’s book-store and, after one swift glance up the street and another down the street, he pushes strenuously through the whirling doors. With swinging tread, he marches down the broad center aisle and hails a busy clerk. Yes, the clerk has sometimes heard of James Shooneker and—yes,—they have a book or two of his—just a minute. Then a convulsive terror seizes Ben Dullard Krupp, for on the other side of the same counter stands Donald Worcester. The younger approaches the elder with unaccustomed familiarity, having him, at the moment, on the hip, as it were.
Donald Worcester. Looking up Shooneker? Here’s one of his things,—Half-tones in Modern Music.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Oh, yes; that. I remember reading it when I was scarcely more than a boy.
Donald Worcester. It was published in 1909, I see.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Must be a later edition, then. Oh, pshaw! What’s the use of waiting for that clerk? I think I have a complete set of Shooneker packed away at home.
Donald Worcester. That so? Well, I’ll tell the clerk you couldn’t wait. Maybe I’d like the book myself, if it’s worth anything at all.