t he had left in the chair a
communication for some of his accomplices. I determined to transfer the
roll of paper to my pocket and examine it at my leisure. But no sooner
had I come to this determination than I imagined that every person in
the room had his eyes fixed on me. And then the problem, if you can
call it so, was solved for me.

A stranger who had evidently arrived while I was in the next room
appeared to be regarding Whistling Jim with some curiosity, and
presently spoke to him, inquiring if he was the negro that played on
the piano. Whistler replied that he could "sorter" play. "If you are
Whistling Jim," I said, "play us a plantation tune. I heard a man say
the other day that the finest tune he ever heard was one you played for
him. It was something about 'My gal's sweet.'"

The negro looked at me hard, but something in my countenance must have
conveyed a warning to him. "I 'member de man, suh; he say he wuz fum
Cincinnati, an' he gun me a fi'-dollar bill--a green one."

Without more ado, he went to the piano and plunged into the
heart-breaking melody of--

"_Yo' gal's a neat gal, but my gal's sweet--
Sweet-a-little, sweet-a-little, sweet, sweet, sweet!
Fum de crown er her head ter de soles er her feet--
Feet-a-little, feet-a-little, feet, feet, feet!_"

Naturally all eyes were turned on the performer, and I took advantage
of that fact to rise from the rocking-chair with the roll of paper safe
in my pocket, and saunter across the room in the direction of the
piano. Leaning against a corner of the ramshackle old instrument, I
drank in the melody with a new sense of its wild and melancholy beauty.
The room in which I stood seemed transformed into what it never could
be, and the old piano shed its discord and was glorified by the
marvellous playing of the negro.

The foolish little song runs along for several stanzas, simulating the
sound of dancing feet. Alternately the negro sang the air and whistled
the chorus, but whether he did one or the other, the effect was the
same. The silly song struck the home note and sent it vibrating through
my brain so invitingly that I was almost sorry that Whistling Jim had
played it.

I returned to earth when he ceased playing. He looked hard at me when
he had finished, but I did not glance at him. At the other end of the
piano, leaning against it, and apparently lost in thought, was the
young fellow I had seen in the other room. His cloak was t