The musicians—­how shall one begin to describe them?  All this time they have been there, playing in a mad frenzy—­all of this scene must be read, or said, or sung, to music.  It is the music which makes it what it is; it is the music which changes the place from the rear room of a saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a wonderland, a little corner of the high mansions of the sky.

The little person who leads this trio is an inspired man.  His fiddle is out of tune, and there is no rosin on his bow, but still he is an inspired man—­the hands of the muses have been laid upon him.  He plays like one possessed by a demon, by a whole horde of demons.  You can feel them in the air round about him, capering frenetically; with their invisible feet they set the pace, and the hair of the leader of the orchestra rises on end, and his eyeballs start from their sockets, as he toils to keep up with them.

Tamoszius Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught himself to play the violin by practicing all night, after working all day on the “killing beds.”  He is in his shirt sleeves, with a vest figured with faded gold horseshoes, and a pink-striped shirt, suggestive of peppermint candy.  A pair of military trousers, light blue with a yellow stripe, serve to give that suggestion of authority proper to the leader of a band.  He is only about five feet high, but even so these trousers are about eight inches short of the ground.  You wonder where he can have gotten them or rather you would wonder, if the excitement of being in his presence left you time to think of such things.

For he is an inspired man.  Every inch of him is inspired—­you might almost say inspired separately.  He stamps with his feet, he tosses his head, he sways and swings to and fro; he has a wizened-up little face, irresistibly comical; and, when he executes a turn or a flourish, his brows knit and his lips work and his eyelids wink—­the very ends of his necktie bristle out.  And every now and then he turns upon his companions, nodding, signaling, beckoning frantically—­with every inch of him appealing, imploring, in behalf of the muses and their call.

For they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other two members of the orchestra.  The second violin is a Slovak, a tall, gaunt man with black-rimmed spectacles and the mute and patient look of an overdriven mule; he responds to the whip but feebly, and then always falls back into his old rut.  The third man is very fat, with a round, red, sentimental nose, and he plays with his eyes turned up to the sky and a look of infinite yearning.  He is playing a bass part upon his cello, and so the excitement is nothing to him; no matter what happens in the treble, it is his task to saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note after another, from four o’clock in the afternoon until nearly the same hour next morning, for his third of the total income of one dollar per hour.