on took
it into his head to become jealous. She had not paid the slightest
attention to him, so he could not attribute her absence to a personal
slight; but he felt aggrieved and vaguely irritated.

Pinton's musicianship was not profound. He had begun life as an organ
salesman. He manipulated the cabinet organ for impossible customers in
Wisconsin, and he came to New York because he was offered a better
chance.

The inevitable church position occurred. Then came Zundel voluntaries
and hard pedal practice. At last Mendelssohn's organ sonatas were
reached and with them a call--organists, like pastors, have calls--to a
fashionable church. The salary was fair and Mr. Pinton grew
side-whiskers.

He heard Paderewski play Chopin, and became a crazy lover of the piano.
He hired a small upright and studied finger exercises. He consulted a
thousand books on technic, and in the meantime could not play Czerny's
velocity studies.

He grew thin, and sought the advice of many pianists. He soon found that
pressing your foot on the swell and pulling couplers for tone colour
were not the slightest use in piano playing. Subtle finger pressures,
the unloosening of the muscles, the delicate art of _nuance_, the art
unfelt by many organists, all were demanded of the pianist, and Pinton
almost despaired.

He grew contemptuous of the king of instruments as he essayed the C
major invention of Bach. He sneered at stops and pedals, and believed,
in his foolish way, that all polyphony was bound within the boards of
the Well-Tempered Clavichord. Then the new alto came to the choir, and
Pinton--at being springtide, when the blood is in the joyful
mood--thought that he was in love. He was really athirst.

This Friday evening he was genuinely disappointed and thirsty. He turned
with a sinking heart and parched throat into Pop Pusch's dearly beloved
resort. Earlier in his life he had often solaced himself with the free
lunch that John, the melancholy waiter, had dispensed. Pinton's mind was
a prey to many emotions as he entered the famous old place. He sat down
before a brown table and clamoured for amber beer.

He was not alone at the table. As Pinton put the glass of Pilsner to his
lips he met the gaze of two sardonic eyes. He could not finish his
glass. He returned the look of the other man and then arose, with a
nervous jerk that almost upset the table.

"Sit down, old pal; don't be crazy. I'll never say a word. Sit down, you
fool; don't