e. I fell asleep.... The next evening I found, on awakening,
a horrible headache and a letter from my father. I was turned out of
doors, disowned, and bade to go about my business. So here I am,
gentlemen, as you see, at your service, and always thirsty." ...

The friends were about to put a hundred questions, when a thin, acid
female voice broke in: "Benny, don't you think you've wasted enough of
the gentlemen's time? You'd better get to work. The people are nearly
all gone." Feodor Wilkins started to his feet and blushed as an old, fat
woman, wearing a Mother Hubbard of gross pattern, waddled toward the
table. The sad pianist with the flaming hair turned to the boys:

"My wife, Mrs. Wilkins, gentlemen!" The lady took a seat at Billy's
invitation and also a small drink of peppermint and whiskey. She told
them that she was tired out; business had been good, and if Benny would
only quit drinking and play more popular music, why, she wouldn't
complain! Then she drank to their health, and Billy thought he saw the
husband make a convulsive movement in his throat. It may have been
caused by hysterical mortification--the woman was undeniably vulgar--but
to the practical-minded Billy it was more like an envious involuntary
swallowing at the sight of another's drinking. Then the pianist mounted
his wooden throne, where, amid the dust and tramplings of low conquests
and in the murky air, he began to toll out the bells of the Chopin
Funeral March.

"Funny how they all quit eatin' and drinkin' when he speels, isn't it?"
remarked the wife with a gratified smile. "Why, if he was half a man
he'd play all day as well as night and then folks out yonder would
forgit their vittles altogether. I suppose he give you the same old
yarn?"

Harry bristled: "What old story, madame? Mr. Feodor Wilkins told us of
his studies abroad and his unsuccessful debut in London. It's a
beautiful story. He's a great artist, and you ought to be proud of him."

The woman burst into laughter. "Why, the old fraud has been stringing
you. Fedderr, he calls himself! His name is Benny, just plain Benny
Wilkins, and he never saw London. He's from Boston way, took lessons at
some big observatory up there, and he run up such a big slate with me
that he married me to sponge it out. Schwamm d'rueber! you know. My first
husband left a nice little tavern, and them music stoodents just flocked
out after lessons was over to drink beer. Oh, dear me, Benny was a nice
boy