The Booming of Acre Hill | Page 5

one of his refuges. When his spirit was subjected to an extreme tension
he relieved his soul by flying to the composers; to use his own very bad
joke, when he was in need of composure he sought out the
"composures." As time progressed, however, and the petty annoyances
grew more numerous, the merely intellectual pleasure of the writings of
Wagner and Handel and Mozart possibly failed to suffice, and an organ
was contracted for.
"I enjoy reading the music," said he as we sat and talked over his plan,
"but sometimes--very often, in fact--I feel as if something ought to
shriek, and I'm going to have an organ of my own to do it for me."
So, as I have said, the organ was contracted for, was built, and an
additional series of trials began. Upon a very important occasion the
organ declined to shriek, although every effort to persuade it to perform
the functions for which it was designed was made. Forty or fifty very
charming people were gathered together to be introduced to the virtues
of the new instrument--for Carson was not the kind of man to keep to
himself the good things which came into his life; he shared all his
blessings, while keeping his woes to himself; a well-known virtuoso

was retained to set forth the possibilities of the acquisition, and all was
going as "merry as a marriage bell" when suddenly there came a
wheeze, and the fingers of the well-known virtuoso were powerless to
elicit the harmonious shrieks which all had come to hear.
It was a sad moment, but Carson was equal to the occasion.
"Something's out of gear," he said, with a laugh due rather to his
philosophical nature than to mirth. "I'm afraid we'll have to finish on
the piano."
* * * * *
And so we did, and a delightful evening we had of it, although many of
us went home wondering what on earth was the matter with the organ.
A few days later I met Carson on the train and the mystery was solved.
"The trouble was with the water-pipes," he explained. "They were put
in wrong, and the location of the house is such that every time Colonel
Hawkins, on the other side of the street, takes a bath, all the water that
flows down the hill is diverted into his tub."
I tried not to laugh.
"You'll have to enter into an agreement with the Colonel," I said.
"Make him promise not to bathe between certain hours."
"That's a good idea," said Carson, smiling, "but after all I guess I'd
better change the pipes. Heaven forbid that in days like these I should
seek to let any personal gratification stand between another man and
the rare virtue of cleanliness."
Several weeks went by, and men were busily employed in seeing that
the water supply needed for a proper running of the organ came direct
from the mains, instead of coming from a pipe of limited capacity used
in common by a half dozen or more residents of a neighboring side
street.

Somewhere about the end of the fourth week Carson invited me to
dinner. The organ was all right again, he said. The water supply was
sufficient, and if I cared to I might dine with him, and afterward spend
an evening sitting upon the organ bench while Carson himself
manipulated the keys. I naturally accepted the invitation, since, in
addition to his other delightful qualities, Carson is a past grand-master
in the art of giving dinners. He is a man with a taste, and a dinner good
enough for him is a thing to arouse the envy of the gods. Furthermore,
as I have already said, he is a musician of no mean order, and I know of
no greater pleasure than that of sitting by his side while he "potters
through a score," as he puts it. But there was a disappointment in store
for us. I called at the appointed hour and found the household more or
less in consternation. The cook had left, and a dinner of "cold things"
confronted us.
"She couldn't stand the organ," explained Carson. "She said it got on to
her nerves--'rumblin' like.'"
I gazed upon him in silent sympathy as we dined on cold roast beef,
stuffed olives, and ice cream.
"This is serious," my host observed as we sat over our coffee and cigars
after the repast. "That woman was the only decent cook we've managed
to secure in seven years, and, by Jingo, the minute she gets on to my
taste the organ gets on to her nerves and she departs!"
"One must eat," I observed.
"That's just it," said Carson. "If it comes to a question of cook or organ
the organ will have