ing
shameless redness.

Feodor's appearances were at first spasmodic. This was only natural, seeing
that he had not yet instilled into us his own attractive habit of _laisser
aller_ and _laisser faire_, and that his red trousers offered such a
beautiful mark.

He would appear suddenly, smile seraphically towards us, and then disappear
before our snipers could get on to him. At first of course we tried to pot
him, but gradually our ferocity gave way to amazement and then to
tolerance. At last came a day when Feodor climbed on to his parapet and
made us a pretty little speech. We cheered him loudly, although we didn't
understand much of it. Next day we brought down an interpreter and asked
Feodor for an encore. His second performance was even more spirited than
the first, and after a graceful vote of thanks to our benefactor we asked
the interpreter to oblige.

It appeared that from his boyhood Feodor had been apprenticed to an
assistant piano-tuner in Varna. Rosy days of rapid promotion followed, and
the boy, completely wrapped up in his profession, soon became a deputy
assistant piano-tuner. Then followed the old, old story of vaulting
ambition.

The youth, his head turned by material success, sought to consolidate his
social position by a marriage above his station, and dared to aspire to the
hand of a full piano-tuner's daughter.

The old man tried gentle dissuasion at first, but the obstinate pertinacity
of the stripling made him gradually lose patience. He was a hale and hearty
veteran, and when the situation came to a climax his method of dealing with
it was stern and thorough.

Seizing the hapless Feodor during an evening call he interned him in the
vitals of a tuneless Baby Grand, and for three hours played on him CHOPIN'S
polonaise in A flat major, with the loud pedal down. On his release Feodor
had lost his reason and rushed to the nearest police-station to ask to be
sent to the Front immediately. His object, he explained, was to end the
War. The Bulgar authorities thought the plan worth trying and sent him off
as a comitadjus; and to these circumstances we were indebted for his
society.

Every day we saw more and more of Feodor, and we grew to love him. As to
sniping him now--the idea never entered our beads. Accordingly, while a
deafening strafe proceeded daily on both sides of us, we remained in a
state of idyllic peace and hatelessness.

Then arrived the cruel day when the Brass Hats came round, a