ig that
was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan,
whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not
to startle him. Looking over the boy's head he said to me, "This one is
bashful. He gets left."

Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He
opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to
relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated
several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he
were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak.

"You know? You have heard, maybe?" he asked incredulously. When I assured
him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that
Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be
able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard
her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our
talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend
her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her
looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know
whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved
much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n't
squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young
man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and
poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and "it was not very
nice, that."

When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid,
and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before
Antonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started
the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the
table at me.

"Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you've
heard about the Cutters?"

No, I had heard nothing at all about them.

"Then you must tell him, son, though it's a terrible thing to talk about
at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about
the murder."

"Hurrah! The murder!" the children murmured, looking pleased and
interested.

Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from
his mother or father.

Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Antonia and
I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. Th