Whistling Dick, professional tramp, possessed a half-friendly acquaintance with this officer.  They had met several times before on the levee at night, for the officer, himself a lover of music, had been attracted by the exquisite whistling of the shiftless vagabond.  Still, he did not care, under the present circumstances, to renew the acquaintance.  There is a difference between meeting a policeman on a lonely wharf and whistling a few operatic airs with him, and being caught by him crawling out of a freight-car.  So Dick waited, as even a New Orleans policeman must move on some time—­perhaps it is a retributive law of nature—­and before long “Big Fritz” majestically disappeared between the trains of cars.

Whistling Dick waited as long as his judgment advised, and then slid swiftly to the ground.  Assuming as far as possible the air of an honest labourer who seeks his daily toil, he moved across the network of railway lines, with the intention of making his way by quiet Girod Street to a certain bench in Lafayette Square, where, according to appointment, he hoped to rejoin a pal known as “Slick,” this adventurous pilgrim having preceded him by one day in a cattle-car into which a loose slat had enticed him.

As Whistling Dick picked his way where night still lingered among the big, reeking, musty warehouses, he gave way to the habit that had won for him his title.  Subdued, yet clear, with each note as true and liquid as a bobolink’s, his whistle tinkled about the dim, cold mountains of brick like drops of rain falling into a hidden pool.  He followed an air, but it swam mistily into a swirling current of improvisation.  You could cull out the trill of mountain brooks, the staccato of green rushes shivering above chilly lagoons, the pipe of sleepy birds.

Rounding a corner, the whistler collided with a mountain of blue and brass.

“So,” observed the mountain calmly, “You are already pack.  Und dere vill not pe frost before two veeks yet!  Und you haf forgotten how to vistle.  Dere was a valse note in dot last bar.”

“Watcher know about it?” said Whistling Dick, with tentative familiarity; “you wit yer little Gherman-band nixcumrous chunes.  Watcher know about music?  Pick yer ears, and listen agin.  Here’s de way I whistled it—­see?”

He puckered his lips, but the big policeman held up his hand.

“Shtop,” he said, “und learn der right way.  Und learn also dot a rolling shtone can’t vistle for a cent.”

Big Fritz’s heavy moustache rounded into a circle, and from its depths came a sound deep and mellow as that from a flute.  He repeated a few bars of the air the tramp had been whistling.  The rendition was cold, but correct, and he emphasized the note he had taken exception to.

“Dot p is p natural, und not p vlat.  Py der vay, you petter pe glad I meet you.  Von hour later, und I vould half to put you in a gage to vistle mit der chail pirds.  Der orders are to bull all der pums after sunrise.”