None of us had heard it, that we could remember.

The young men said it was the funniest song that had ever been written, and that, if we liked, they would get Herr Slossenn Boschen, whom they knew very well, to sing it.  They said it was so funny that, when Herr Slossenn Boschen had sung it once before the German Emperor, he (the German Emperor) had had to be carried off to bed.

They said nobody could sing it like Herr Slossenn Boschen; he was so intensely serious all through it that you might fancy he was reciting a tragedy, and that, of course, made it all the funnier.  They said he never once suggested by his tone or manner that he was singing anything funny—­that would spoil it.  It was his air of seriousness, almost of pathos, that made it so irresistibly amusing.

We said we yearned to hear it, that we wanted a good laugh; and they went downstairs, and fetched Herr Slossenn Boschen.

He appeared to be quite pleased to sing it, for he came up at once, and sat down to the piano without another word.

“Oh, it will amuse you.  You will laugh,” whispered the two young men, as they passed through the room and took up an unobtrusive position behind the Professor’s back.

Herr Slossenn Boschen accompanied himself.  The prelude did not suggest a comic song exactly.  It was a weird, soulful air.  It quite made one’s flesh creep; but we murmured to one another that it was the German method, and prepared to enjoy it.

I don’t understand German myself.  I learned it at school, but forgot every word of it two years after I had left, and have felt much better ever since.  Still, I did not want the people there to guess my ignorance; so I hit upon what I thought to be rather a good idea.  I kept my eye on the two young students, and followed them.  When they tittered, I tittered; when they roared, I roared; and I also threw in a little snigger all by myself now and then, as if I had seen a bit of humor that had escaped the others.  I considered this particularly artful on my part.

I noticed, as the song progressed, that a good many other people seemed to have their eyes fixed on the two young men, as well as myself.  These other people also tittered when the young men tittered, and roared when the young men roared; and, as the two young men tittered and roared and exploded with laughter pretty continuously all through the song, it went exceedingly well.

And yet that German professor did not seem happy.  At first, when we began to laugh, the expression of his face was one of intense surprise, as if laughter were the very last thing he had expected to be greeted with.  We thought this very funny:  we said his earnest manner was half the humor.  The slightest hint on his part that he knew how funny he was would have completely ruined it all.  As we continued to laugh, his surprise gave way to an air of annoyance and indignation, and he scowled fiercely round upon us all (except the two young men, who, being behind him, could not be seen).  That sent us into convulsions.  We told each other it would be the death of us, this thing.  The words alone, we said, were enough to send us into fits, but added to his mock seriousness—­oh, it was too much!