Tales from Bohemia | Page 8

occupation, even with a
cigar to sweeten it. So he came back and mingled with the gay crowd
on the boardwalk and tried to forget her.
Morrow had no sooner left Haddon than he felt his arm touched.
Looking around, he saw the smiling face of the loveliest girl in the
world.
"Well, by Jove, Edith," he said. "At last I've found you!"
"Yes. I heard you were down here. You see, I've been up in town for
the last week. Gracious, but Philadelphia is hot! Here's Aunt Laura."
Morrow spent the evening with Edith. One night a week later, he
proposed to her on the pier.
"I will say yes," she replied, "if you can give me your assurance that
you've never been in love with any one else."
"That's easily given. You know very well you're the only girl I've ever
loved."

II
A BIT OF MELODY [Footnote: Copyrighted by J. Brisbane Walker,
and used by the courtesy of the Cosmopolitan Magazine.]

It was twelve o'clock that Sunday night when, leaving the
lodging-house for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the
two musicians coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in
cases. They belonged to the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, and were
returning from a dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be
produced there on the following night.
Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded
to my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and
passed on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded
face was as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering
gaslight.
The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in
disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he
stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and
the danger of the icy pavements. "I'm t'ankful to be at last home," he
said, showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the muffler
from his neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an
ample red beard. "Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder.
Stay warm in de house and I play for you de music of de new opera."
"Thanks for your solicitude," I said, "but I must have my walk. Play to
your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into geniality.
Good night."
The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the
taciturnity of his countryman and confrère, with a gesture and a look of
reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he
disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs.
As I passed up the street, where I was in constant peril of losing my
footing, I saw his windows grow feebly alight. He had ignited the gas
in his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf.
My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of
heart. Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one,
while his practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second
violinist. When I commended his magnanimity he would say, with a
smile:
"My frient, you mistake altogedder. I am de most selfish man. Charity
cofers a multitude of sins. I haf so many sins to cofer."
We called him the professor because besides fulfilling his nightly and

matinée duties at the theatre, he gave piano lessons to a few pupils, and
because those of us who could remember his long German surname
could not pronounce it.
One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his
friend Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival
from Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor
learned that he had been unable to secure employment, and that his last
cent had departed the day before. The professor took him home, clothed
him and cared for him until eventually another second violin was
needed in the ---- Theatre orchestra.
Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, and
he picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and
waltzes.
All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk in
that freezing weather. As I turned into Broadway, I was surprised to
collide with my friend the doctor.
"I came out for a stroll and a bit to eat," I said. "Won't you join me? I
know a snug little place that keeps open till two o'clock, where devilled
crabs are as good as the broiled oyster."
"With pleasure," he replied, cordially, still holding my hand; "not for
your