th us, he disguised himself now as a very severe and even
savage-looking person of about thirty-five--side-burns, mustachios and
goatee. Then, with our aid, timing his arrival to an hour when Paul was
certain to be at his desk, he entered briskly and vigorously and,
looking about with a savage air, demanded, "Where is Paul Dresser?"

The latter turned almost apprehensively, I thought, and at once seemed
by no means captivated by the man's looks.

"That's Mr. Dresser there," explained one of the confederates most
willingly.

The stranger turned and glared at him. "So you're the scoundrel that's
been running around with my wife, are you?" he demanded, approaching him
and placing one hand on his right hip.

Paul made no effort to explain. It did not occur to him to deny the
allegation, although he had never seen the man before. With a rising
and backward movement he fell against the rail behind him, lifting both
hands in fright and exclaiming, "Why--why--Don't shoot!" His expression
was one of guilt, astonishment, perplexity. As some one afterwards said,
"As puzzled as if he was trying to discover which injured husband it
might be." The shout that went up--for it was agreed beforehand that the
joke must not be carried far--convinced him that a hoax had been
perpetrated, and the removal by the actor of his hat, sideburns and
mustache revealed the true character of the injured husband. At first
inclined to be angry and sulky, later on he saw the humor of his own
indefinite position in the matter and laughed as heartily as any. But I
fancy it developed a strain of uncertainty in him also in regard to
injured husbands, for he was never afterwards inclined to interest
himself in the much-married, and gave such wives a wide berth.

But his great forte was of course his song-writing, and of this, before
I speak of anything else, I wish to have my say. It was a gift, quite a
compelling one, out of which, before he died, he had made thousands, all
spent in the manner described. Never having the least power to interpret
anything in a fine musical way, still he was always full of music of a
tender, sometimes sad, sometimes gay, kind--that of the ballad-maker of
a nation. He was constantly attempting to work them out of himself, not
quickly but slowly, brooding as it were over the piano wherever he might
find one and could have a little solitude, at times on the organ (his
favorite instrument), improvising various sad or wistful s