en the piano sounded. Chopin again, and curious to know who
possessed such a touch at Coney Island, the friends found a table to the
right of the keyboard and sat down. As they did, they looked at the
pianist and both exclaimed:

"Paderewski or his ghost!" The fellow wore a shock of lemon-tinted hair
after the manner of the Polish virtuoso, but his face was shaven clean.

"Harry, he looks like a lost soul," said Billy, who was rather plain
spoken in his judgments.

"Let's give him a drink," whispered Harry, and he called a waiter.
"Whiskey," said the waiter after a question had been put, and presently
the piano player was bowing to them as he threw the liquor into his
large mouth. Then the Chopin study in C minor was recommenced and
half-finished and the two music lovers forgot their dinner. A waiter
spoke to them twice; the manager, seeing that music was hurting trade,
went to the piano and coughed. The pianist instantly stopped, and a
dinner was ordered by Harry. Billy looked around him with a trained eye.
He noticed that the women were all sunburned and wore much glittering
jewelry; the men looked like countrymen and were timid in the use of the
fork. When the music began they stopped eating and their companions
ordered fresh drinks. Billy could have sworn that he saw one woman
crying. But as soon as the music ceased conversation began, and the
rattle of dishes was deafening.

"I say, Harry, this is a queer go. There's something funny about this
place and this piano. It upsets all my theories of piano music. When the
piano begins here the audience forgets to eat, and its passion mounts to
its ears. Not like the West End at all, is it?" Harry was busy with his
soup. He was sentimental, and the sight of kindred hair--the hue beloved
of Paderewski--roused his sympathies.

"By George, Billy, that fellow's an artist. Just look at his expression.
There's a story in him, and I'm going to get it. It may be news."

They chatted, and asked the pianist to join them in another drink.
Whiskey was sent up to the platform, and the musician drank it at a
gulp, his right hand purling over the figuration of "Auf dem Wasser zu
Singen." But he took no water. Then making them a little bobbing,
startled bow, he began playing. Again it was something of Chopin. On his
lean features there was a look of detachment; and the watchers were
struck with the interesting forehead, the cheeks etched with seams of
suffering, and the finely compr