Buck, Charles Neville, 1879-1930 / 2008-11-27 00:00:00


"I've been pumping the organ." Paul's reply was half-apologetic.
"You don't think about much except music, do you, Paul?"
"Isn't music all right?" For once the lad spoke almost aggressively in
defense of his single enthusiasm.
"I wasn't exactly finding fault, Paul. Only, I don't see much hope for a
feller in this country that doesn't think about anything else. You're in
pretty much the same fix as an Esquimo that can't be happy without
flowers. Grand opera doesn't come as often as the circus, and some years
the circus doesn't come. Listen!" He put one hand into his trousers'
pockets, and noisily rattled a handful of coins. "_That_ music is
understood everywhere. Even in this God-forsaken place, they know how to
dance to its tune."
"Where did you get it?" For an instant Paul halted in his tracks and
forgot his air-castles. Money was so rare a thing in their narrow little
world that even to his impracticability it partook of magic.
Yesterday Ham's pockets had been as empty as his own and today there
emanated from them the clash of silver--not the tinkle of light nickels
and dimes, but the substantial clatter of halves and dollars.
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