"Is that right? Don't ask me to scratch, Kaya! I can't bear it so
close to my ear. The din of their stamping is frightful, the swine!
No one will notice."

The whispering ceased. The gypsey bent his dark head again and the
violin played on. "One, two--one, two, three!"

All of a sudden, voices began to call out from the floor, here and
there among the dancers, irritated and angry; then an oath or two:
"Keep time, Bradjaga, keep time!" Their heels beat against the floor.

The landlord crossed the room hastily, edging in and out among the
dancers; he was frowning and rubbing his hands one over the other.
When he reached the platform, he leaned on it with his elbows and
beckoned to the gypsies.

"You don't play badly," he called, "not badly at all; but Dimitri, the
old man, he suited them better. He always came strong on the beat.
Play the old tunes, Bradjaga; something they know with a crash on the
first, like this."

He clapped his hands: "_One_, two, three! _One_, two, three! And
fast--just so, all the time!"

"Chort vozmi[1]!" cried Velasco, "They don't like my playing! Don't
clap your hands again--don't! The racket is enough to split one's
ear-drums!"

He dropped his violin on his knees and stared blinking at the landlord,
who was still gesticulating and taking little skipping steps by way of
illustration.

"_One_, two, three--_one_, two, three! So, loud and strong! Just try
it, Bradjaga!"

Velasco blinked again and a flush came slowly in his cheeks: "My poor
Stradivarius," he said slowly in Polish, "They don't like you; they
prefer a common fiddler with a crash on the beat! Bozhe moi! Kaya, do
you hear?"

The younger gypsey made a sound half startled, half laughing, drawing
nearer to him on the platform. "Hist, Velasco! They are peasants;
they don't know! Ah, be careful--the strangers are crossing the floor.
They are looking at you and talking together! I knew it, I feared it!"

The dancing had stopped, and threading their way through the groups
came several ladies and a gentleman.

"Bradjaga," said the landlord, "This is Ivan Petrokoff, the famous
musician of Moscow, who has deigned to honour my humble house with his
presence. He wishes to examine your instrument."

The gentleman nodded brusquely and stretched out a fat hand. He was
short and quite bald, and he stuttered as he spoke. "Quite a d-decent
fiddle for a gypsey," he said, "Let me s-see it!"

Velasco bowed with his h