"Don't worry," he said; "put a prop under your piano-lid and bring me a
chair. I'll work the ivories for you."
He played till midnight, drank his free beers between each selection,
his face as grave as a judge except when he would wink at me out of the
corner of his eye to show his intense enjoyment of the whole situation.
You can judge of its effect on the audience when I tell you that one
young girl in a pink shirt-waist was so overcome with emotion and so
sorry for the sad young man who had to earn his living in any such way,
that she laid a ten-cent piece on the piano within reach of my friend's
fingers. The smile of intense gratitude which permeated his face--a
"thank-God-you-have-saved-me-from-starvation" smile, was part of the
evening's enjoyment. He wears the dime now on his watch-chain; he says
it is the only money he ever earned by his music; to which one of his
club-friends added, "Or in your life."
Since that time I have been _persona grata_ to Muffles. Since that time,
too, I have studied him at close range: on snowy days--for I like my
tramps in winter, with the Bronx a ribbon of white, even though it may
be too cold to paint--as well as my outings on Sunday summer mornings
when I sit down with his other friends to watch Muffles shave.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341