voiced the
desire of an unknown gentleman on the near border of Harlem for the
services of a performer upon that semi-exotic instrument. One among
several, it had been cut from the columns of the Universal, on the
evening which had launched him upon his new enterprise. Average Jones
made two steps to a bookcase, took down a huge scrap-book from an
alphabetized row, and turned the leaves rapidly.

"Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street," said he, slamming the book
shut again. "Three Hundred East One Hundredth. You won't mind, will
you," he said to Waldemar, "if I leave you unceremoniously?"

"Recalled a forgotten engagement?" asked the other, rising.

"Yes. No. I mean I'm going to Harlem to hear some music. Thirty-fourth's
the nearest station, isn't it? Thanks. So long."

Waldemar rubbed his head thoughtfully as the door slammed behind the
speeding Ad-Visor.

"Now, what kind of a tune is he on the track of, I wonder?" he mused.
"I wish it hadn't struck him until I'd had time to go over the Linder
business with him."

But while Waldemar rubbed his head in cogitatation and the Honorable
William Linder, in his Brooklyn headquarters, breathed charily, out of
respect to his creaking rib, Average Jones was following fate northward.

Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street is a house decrepit with a
disease of the aged. Its windowed eyes are rheumy. It sags backward on
gnarled joints. All its poor old bones creak when the winds shake it. To
Average Jones' inquiring gaze on this summer day it opposed the secrecy
of a senile indifference. He hesitated to pull at its bell-knob, lest
by that act he should exert a disruptive force which might bring all
the frail structure rattling down in ruin. When, at length, he forced
himself to the summons, the merest ghost of a tinkle complained
petulantly from within against his violence.

An old lady came to the door. She was sleek and placid, round and
comfortable. She did not seem to belong in that house at all. Average
Jones felt as if he had cracked open one of the grisly locust shells
which cling lifelessly to tree trunks, and had found within a plump and
prosperous beetle.

"Was an advertisement for a trombone player inserted from this house,
ma'am?" he inquired.

"Long ago," said she.

"Am I too late, then?"

"Much. It was answered nearly two months since. I have never," said the
old lady with conviction, "seen such a frazzled lot of folks as B-flat
trombone players."