Part 7

Beholding his home in flames, the ant rushed back indoors to spread the alarm. Along the highways of the interior he sped, a second Paul Revere, rousing the sleeping insects, of which there were many.

"Oh!" groaned Mrs. Whoffin.

The exodus of Paul's friends proceeded in orderly fashion. "Larvæ and eggs first," was their order. Carrying their infants upon their backs, they filed out of the subway openings in steady processions.

"The hands clutched the covers just above his feet. Fear paralyzed him so that he could neither move nor cry out."

A party of refugees applied to Mrs. Whoffin for shelter. She was so absorbed in the story that she did not see them.

"Then the fingers began to creep up and up, up and up. His flesh tingled with horror."

Mrs. Whoffin quivered like an aspen leaf. She breathed hard, her eyes nearly popping. Other people began to feel creepy.

"They clutched his knee, and--"

Mrs. Whoffin uttered a piercing shriek, and clasped her knee with both hands. She was invaded. Then Polly screamed, and Carson began to slap himself on various parts of the anatomy. There was a general panic. Girls squealed and, clambering frantically upon chairs, shook out their lifted skirts; young men stamped about wildly, mashing ants and people's toes in equal numbers. Mrs. Whoffin, tormented from head to foot, galloped in circles, moaning, "Oh mercy! Oh mercy!"

"Save me, George!" cried Polly, clinging to his arm.

"Yes, darling!" he answered fervently. If the ants had been raging bulls, he would have saved her from them; but they were ants, and their ways were devious. He hesitated, slapping himself thoughtfully.

"Turn on the lights!" yelled some one.

"No! Don't!" screamed half a dozen shrill voices.

"Save me!" repeated Polly, distractedly. "I can't stand this any longer! I'll perish!"

Struck with a swift inspiration, he caught her up in his arms and started for the door. She made no resistance. Out of the room he carried her, then through the front hall, and down the front steps.

Half-way down the walk she asked:

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the ocean."

"Why, you clever boy!"

People sitting on the verandas of neighboring cottages saw in he moonlight a sight that electrified them with horror. A powerful looking maniac, with a helpless woman in his arms, strode across the beach and began to wade out into the water. Hoping to save her, they ran to the shore and put out in boats and canoes.

"Oh," sighed the victim, blissfully, as Carson let her down into the water, "it feels so cool--and _quiet_!"

"Polly!"

"George!"

"Row harder, Doctor!" cried the steersman of the nearest boat. "He's trying to strangle her!"

THE MAN WITH THE HOSE

A feeling of elation is like a feeling of alcohol. Under its stimulus a person may do the most brilliant things--and also the most grotesque.

It was just this feeling that took hold of Jack Carrington when the senior member of the firm invited him to dine at his apartment on the following evening and meet "Mrs. Stockbridge and my daughter." During all the rest of the day the young college-man-learning-how-to-work-in-an-office fairly walked on air, and that night, in his hall bedroom, he went through a sort of dress-rehearsal of the rôle he hoped to play on the great occasion, resuscitating and donning his evening clothes to make sure that they looked as well as they did when he led the commencement prom six months before, and marshaling all the bons mots he could recollect, in order that his supply of "extempore" witticisms might be adequate.

Still buoyed up by this feeling of elation, Carrington presented himself next evening at the door of the sumptuous apartment-house where the boss lived, gave his name to one of the liveried grandees in attendance, and was shown up to E 4, a gorgeous duplex suite half as large as a house, and renting for twice as much.

Everything went off splendidly. The boss unbent to a surprising degree, Mrs. Stockbridge was most cordial, and the daughter proved to be a fascinator. What was more, Carrington surpassed himself as a social light. He told several funny stories with considerable éclat; and inspired by the thrill of the occasion, even thought up one or two _original_ ones that surprised him as much as they impressed his hosts. When, later in the evening, he played bridge as the daughter's partner, he had a rush of hearts and aces to the hand. He made slams big and little at such a rate that Miss Stockbridge complimented him upon his skill. Consequently, when, after two victorious rubbers, he bid his hosts good night and noted from their effusiveness that he had made a very favorable impression, it was no wonder that he already pictured himself a member of the firm and the boss's son-in-law.

As the door of the apartment closed behind him, he heaved a sigh of triumph. He felt like shouting or doing something violent. Tingling with pride, he strutted down the hallway toward the elevator.

A shining brass fire-nozzle, jutting out provokingly from a coil of hose, attracted his attention. It looked so like the head of some absurd animal that he couldn't help poking his finger into its mouth as he went by. His finger stuck.

Facing the nozzle squarely and taking hold of it with his free left hand, he pulled more carefully. Still it stuck. The finger was beginning to swell and turn red. He tugged it harder, with no result.

Concluding that lubrication was necessary, he leaned over and licked it, acquiring a strong brass taste upon his tongue. Then he pulled hard. More swelling.

By this time he was in a perspiration of misery. He paused and tried to think clearly, but his mind, which had scintillated all evening, was now a blur. His first lucid thought was that he must unscrew the nozzle from the hose. Why, of course! How simple! But when he tried turning the coupling of the hose, the nozzle insisted on turning with it, and his imprisoned finger was averse to revolving.

Lapsing again into rueful speculation, he tried desperately to devise some means of regaining his liberty. Why not go ring the elevator bell? No; that was around the bend of the corridor, and his tether probably would not reach that far; and, besides, it would be awful to have to explain his plight to a liveried dignitary like the one who had convoyed him up. And suppose the elevator should arrive full of plutocrats coming home from the opera, or high-strung women who would shriek when they saw him with the fire-hose?

No, that could never be risked. He must think of something else. A little olive-oil would probably do the trick, but how could he get it? If he had thought of that at first and gone right back and asked for it, it wouldn't have been so bad; but now, after nearly half an hour, his hosts were probably in bed. No, it was too late to ring their door-bell now.

Suddenly an ingenious idea occurred to him: he would turn on the water and _squirt_ his finger out! Splendid! He reached up and turned the wheel. It made a mournful creaking sound, but no water came through the coil of hose. "It must be shut off downstairs," he thought.

Thanks to the incessant sting of his finger and the maddening exasperation of the predicament he was in, Carrington was nearly frantic.

"Oh," he exclaimed, "I'll have to disturb them for that oil sooner or later, so I'd better do it right off."

With that he started for the boss's door, trailing the hose after him. His heart thumped as he rang the bell. Standing in close to the wall, he kept the nozzle behind his back, thinking it better to explain before displaying his appendage.

There was a sound of slippered feet, and, from the opposite direction, a sound of slipping hose. The door was unlocked, and the remainder of the canvas-and-rubber coil that had kept back the water unrolled down upon the floor.

"Who's there?" growled Mr. Stockbridge, arrayed in a bath-robe and squinting out into the dimly lighted corridor without his glasses.

Mortification seemed to paralyze Carrington's speech. Bringing the nozzle forward abjectly, so that Mr. Stockbridge could see his plight, he faltered:

"I--"

At that moment his finger was shot like a bullet from a gun, and the ensuing stream of water caught Mr. Stockbridge squarely in the throat.

Simultaneously, a supreme inspiration came to Carrington.

"I'm a _fireman_," he cried in a disguised voice. "Wake your family at once!"

Whereupon, as Mr. Stockbridge rushed back into the apartment, Carrington, dropping the hose, made a thrilling rescue of himself down the stairway, and darted into the street before the drowsy dignitary in the vestibule could raise his head.

JANGLES

THOSE SYMPHONY CONCERT PROGRAMS

_METROPOLITAN SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA_

OTTO CULMBACHER, _Conductor_

FELICE ELEFANTINE, _Soloiste of the evening_

I. GASTRONOMIC SYMPHONY--_Kovik-Bordunov_

(a) Allegretti (b) Pistachio (c) Chianti (d) Risotto, con aglio

II. LARGHETTO _Culmbacher_

III. ARIA FROM "IL CAMPANILE" _Gondola_ (SIGNORINA ELEFANTINE)

(_The Hardwood Piano is used_)

* * * * *

CRITICAL COMMENTS ON THE NUMBERS

I. _Gastronomic Symphony_. It is not certain when Ptior Kovik-Bordunov was born. His parents, being thrifty peasants, put him in a basket and left him on the steppes of Russia. Adopted by a Russian Princess, named Caviar Vodka, he was raised as if he had been her own dog. His early musical inclination was so pronounced that he was sent to the Warsaw Conservatory, where he served three terms. Soon after being released from this institution he wrote "Samovar," the opera that made him famous. "Samovar" so pleased the Czar that young Bordunov was given a pension and a bath. But alas! either his sudden success or the bath so affected his mind, that from that time on the authorities were obliged to keep him in confinement. The above symphony was written on the walls of his cell, from which it was transcribed after his suicide. It depicts the blight of all his hopes, the sorrows of Russia, the drowning of his fiancée, the height of the steppes, and the agonies of indigestion.

The Allegretti opens with an arabesque tone-poem of somber sweetness, under which strange and varied delights are hidden. Then comes the minor Pistachio, weirdly oriental in color. This is followed by the tempestuous and maddening Chianti. Last of all comes the terrible Risotto, con aglio. Here we have an example of the insight of genius! By itself, the Risotto con aglio would be almost mild; but coming as it does on top of the Allegretti, the Pistachio, and the Chianti, it is bound to produce a truly tragic finale.

II. _Larghetto_. This étude is by the conductor. (He thought this would be a good place to work it in, the orchestra and audience being powerless to restrain him.)

Herr Otto Fédor Ivan Culmbacher was born of noble parents in Hofbräu, Silesia. He was discovered and imported to America by the brilliant patronesses of the Metropolitan Symphony Society.

A larghetto is a little largo--one without a handel. A composer writes a larghetto when he feels something like writing a largo but isn't, on the whole, quite up to it.

III. _Aria from "Il Campanile."_ This opera, though well known in Budapest and South America, is practically unknown in the United States. The aria, "O belli spaghetti," is so vocally exacting that to sing its bird-like notes a prima donna should diet for weeks on bird seed. Here are the words--which are repeated fourteen times in the course of the aria.

THE ITALIAN THE TRANSLATION

O belli spaghetti, Had I the wings of a dove,

O bianchi confetti. I would fly, I would fly to my love.

Bananni, bananni, I would fly, I would fly,

E tutti frutti-- Through the sky, through the sky,

O bianchi confetti! I would fly, I would fly to my love!

(_She waddles off_)

HOW TO KNOW THE INSTRUMENTS

(Editor's Note.--The following observations, if carefully studied, will enable the intelligent concertgoer to tell the difference between an orchestra and a dress circle.)

The principal instrument in music is the violin. This instrument is held fast under the performer's double chin and then tickled in the gut with a strand of horse hair until it cries out. Which cruel treatment reacts on its disposition, so that, as the little violin grows up into a 'cello, it becomes gloomy and morose; and when, after a life of nagging, it reaches old age as a crabbed double bass and is relegated to the back of the orchestra, it spends its resentment in querulous grumbling.

Further from the conductor than the violins, and, consequently, more intermittent in their playing, are the Tootle family. Grandfather Tootle, the bassoon, spends his time in dozing: all you can hear from him is an occasional snore. Mrs. Tootle, the flute, is of a romantic turn of mind, doting on moonlight and warbling birds and babbling brooks. She prides herself on her limpid utterance, and admonishes her little son Piccolo not to talk through his nose like Cousin Oboe Tootle. Her husband, the bass clarinet, takes himself very seriously--and no wonder, for to him falls the unpleasant duty of announcing bad news, such as that the hero has just died, or that the act is only half over.

Quite remote from the conductor are the mysterious somethings that live in kettle-drums. What they are no one knows; but a watchful keeper bends over and listens to them, and whenever, despite his constant cork-screwing, they show signs of aggressiveness, he beats them into submission with a brace of bottle-mops. If this is not sufficient, he calls in an assistant, who cows them with the roar of a whanging Chinese stewpan.

Somewhat nearer the conductor, but yet far enough away to be able to resist his authority until threatened with his stick, are the horns, the most vehement members of the orchestra. A blast from them, besides waking up the audience, always means something. For example, the martial sound of a trumpet heralds the approach of a conqueror or a scissors-grinder.

The old-fashioned hunting horn, from which the modern orchestral horn is descended, was very simple indeed. In those days every one was supposed to wind his horn, instead of buying it already wound, as we do now.

Yet the modern pretzelized horn is still adapted for hunting purposes. Take as large a horn as you can conveniently carry (a 42-centimetre tuba is preferable) and stand under a tree, with the muzzle pointing up at the bird you desire to hunt. Then play "Silver Threads Among the Gold" for two hours and ten minutes, and the bird will fall lifeless into the horn.

NOTES ON PIANOS

A piano is an instrument with eighty-eight keys and twenty installments. You play on the keys and pay on the installments--the latter being by far the more difficult performance. If you do not play in time, you are called down by your critics; if you do not pay on time, you are called on by your collectors.

The keys are arranged in two rows--short, fat blondes in front, and tall, skinny brunettes behind. There are three pedals (one for each foot, and one for good measure): the damper pedal (or muffler cut-out), which puts an end to conversation; the sostenuto pedal, which helps the piano sustain what it has to sustain; and the soft pedal, which is seldom used, and then only by request.

There are two kinds of pianos--uprights and prostrates. Uprights are used in homes where there is standing room only. Prostrates are used in concert halls--virtuosi prefer them, because they can hit a piano much harder when it is down. The upright piano is frequently pitched in A flat. It remains there till pitched out by the neighbors.

An advantage that this piano possesses is that it keeps the player's back turned to his hearers, which is a great saving to his feelings. Another advantage is that the top serves as a mantelpiece annex; bric-a-brac that won't stand heat but will stand noise is put there. Anything is appropriate--cupids, shepherdesses, brass bowls, painted vases. The only requirement for a place on this repository is that the object be able to make some buzzing, twanging, wheezing, or humming sound when the strings are struck.

Prostrates are built for endurance. Their black finish bespeaks the hard life they lead.

A conflict between one of these indestructible pianos and an irresistible pianist is called a recital. A non-combatant lifts the lid, and the fight begins. FIRST ROUND: _Nocturne_. (Merely warming up.) SECOND ROUND: _Etude_. (Livelier, but not much heavy hitting.) THIRD ROUND: _Scherzo_. (Considerably hotter; fighting in close.) FOURTH ROUND: _Appassionato_. (Real slugging.) FIFTH ROUND: _Rhapsodie_. (Piano receives fearful punishment. Knocked out in final cadenza, but pianist sprains wrist.)

In learning to play the piano, the first thing to acquire is a good touch, or tread (as it is properly called). Unfortunately, there is a divergence of opinion among authorities as to what a good tread consists in; the famous dictum of Prof. Biffski, of Moscow Conservatory, that you should hammer the hammers, being offset by the equally famous assertion of Hieronimus Dudelsack, the noted Viennese pedagogue, that you should not strike the ivories at all, but massage, or knead them. Herr Dudelsack and his eminent pupils maintain that his tread is the only normal one, that it has the naturalness of a cat's walking on the keyboard. But the astute Russian insinuates that it produces tangled chords and scales that are short-weight.

But these methods have been rendered obsolete by the heel-and-toe technique of the playerpiano. This wonderful instrument, impregnating the feet with melody and rhythm, has given rise to the modern dances. For a person who makes a habit of playing the pianola simply _has_ to toddle the music out of his ankles.

Even more remarkable is the way in which the piano-footy has simplified musical composition. The masters of the past had to toil away painfully with pen and ink; whereas the composer of today can attain the same results with a roll of paper and a ticket-punch. Judging from the progress we have made and are still making, it is safe to predict that the composer of the future will use a shotgun.

THE LIFE-DRAMA OF A MUSICAL CRITIC

IN FOUR CLIPPINGS

_I. ADOLESCENCE_

From the Centerville "Clarion":

LOCAL TALENT MAKES SPLENDID SHOWING

The concert held last evening in Masonic Hall was a great success. It certainly showed what Centerville could do in a musical line. From the opening duet, played by Miss Violet and Miss Nancy Stubbs, to the very end of the program, the audience seemed to thoroughly enjoy every number. But the feature of the evening was the singing by Mr. Harry Bowers of "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep." This noble song gave the popular young druggist an opportunity to display his remarkable low notes. Another person deserving of special mention was Miss Helen Smith, who, attractively dressed in pink and carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers, rendered "The Rosary" with great effect. All in all, the concert was a great event, and a considerable amount of money was raised toward the new fire-engine.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN SIMPSON, Music and Art Critic.

_II. EFFERVESCENCE_

From the "New York Chronicle":

GOTHAM ORCHESTRA PLAYS SCHNITZEL

Warmth of Oriental Color

Adolf Schnitzel's symphonic poem "Aus Bengalien," which was admirably performed last evening by the Gotham Symphony Orchestra, shows a masterly understanding of the folk-music of India. The Bengalese have from the earliest times been noted for their proficience in the arts. Their principal instrument is the _bimbam_, an elongated drum, played upon with any convenient article, such as an elephant's tusk or the bone of an ancestor. When struck at one end, it emits the sound _bim_; when struck at the other, a clear-toned _bam_ is produced: hence its curious name. The following melody, known as the "War-Song of Prince Brahmadan," gives one an idea of the capacity of this instrument:

Bim-bim-bam, bim-bam-bim.

The chorus is also characteristic:

Bim, bim!

At the religious ceremonies of the Bengalese, the Futrib, or high priest, plays upon a peculiar one-toned flute, producing an effect of awe and mystery, as this hymn to the sun-god aptly illustrates:

Too--oo--t! Toot, toot-a-toot, toot-a-toot, toot; Too--oo--t!

With this wealth of material to draw from, Schnitzel has constructed a work that is nearly perfect in form. Beginning with a soft _bim-bam-bim_, which is followed by a sinister _toot, toot_, he works up to a climax of marvelous contrapuntal ingenuity, in which the two themes are combined thus:

Bim, toot, bam, toot-a-toot,

Truly the apotheosis of Bengal!

A. L. S.

_III. ACQUIESCENCE_

From the "New York Chronicle":

"WASHINGTON" REPEATED

Last night was a brilliant one at the opera. "Washington," the new American music-drama, was given for the second time, with the same cast as before.

Among those who attended the performance were Mrs. Pierpont Astorbilt, who wore pale nesserole garnished with soufflée; Mr. and Mrs. Plantagenet Carter, the latter in an exquisite creation of blanc-mange; and Mrs. Sibley Harwood-Stevens, in gray limousine, air-cooled with insertion.

Mrs. Reginald Carrington's guests were Lord and Lady Shrewby and the Duc de Vaurien. The latter wore a black dress-suit and a white shirt.

Mrs. Gaybird was present for the first time since the death of her husband. She wore her skirt at half-mast.

(_Unsigned_)

_IV. SENESCENCE_

From the New York "Evening Spot":

BASSOON CONCERT A RELIEF FROM MODERNISM

BY A. LINCOLN SIMPSON

New York is suffering from a plethora of concerts. The fact that the halls are generally crowded is no excuse for giving so many performances. It is unfair to the critics.

Yesterday afternoon, at the concert of the Gotham Symphony Society Ludwig Käse played that great German master-work, the Leberwurst bassoon concerto in F-flat major, opus posthumous. ("Posthumous" does not in this case have its usual meaning of written after the defunction of the composer's brain: it refers to the fact that Leberwurst did not live to publish the work, as his audience lynched him when he played it from manuscript.) This concerto, dedicated to the composer's patron, the deaf old Duke of Pretzelheim, bears the title of "Spring," and this vernal quality was admirably brought out by Herr Käse, particularly in the movement representing influenza. Indeed, it was impossible to hear his sublime sniffulations without being moved to profound coughing.

François Grisé's "Gingerbread Suite," scored for viola, piccolo, trombone, and celesta, might have been interesting had it been more of a novelty; but, since it had been heard in New York five times within four years, its performance on this occasion was a mistake.

The program included also a symphonic rhapsody on cow-boy melodies. As this is by an obscure native composer and has never been heard before, there is nothing to say about it.

THE SURVIVAL OF THE FATTEST

There is no lightweight championship in opera. Stars of the first magnitude are of very considerable magnitude--300 pounds and up. In this class are the expensive prima donnas and heroic tenors (the term "heroic" referring to their efforts to move about the stage). The second magnitude--250 to 299 pounds--includes "jilted beauty" mezzo-sopranos and "hated rival" baritones. The third magnitude (of which no one takes any notice)--under 250 pounds--is made up of "confidante" contraltos and "noble father" bassos.

Thus, it will readily be seen that fat and fame are synonymous. For, in navigating the high C's, latitude is far more important than longitude.