“The finest one you’ve what?” queried the School-master, startled at the verb.

“The finest one I’ve ever seen,” replied the genial gentleman.  “There were only ten performers, and really, in all my experience as an attendant at concerts, I never saw such a magnificent rendering of Beethoven as we had last night.  I wish you could have been there.  It was a sight for the gods.”

“I don’t believe,” said the Idiot, with a slight cough that may have been intended to conceal a laugh—­and that may also have been the result of too many cigarettes—­“I don’t believe it could have been any more interesting than a game of pool I heard at the club.”

“It appears to me,” said the Bibliomaniac to the School-master, “that the popping sounds we heard late last night in the Idiot’s room may have some connection with the present mode of speech these two gentlemen affect.”

“Let’s hear them out,” returned the School-master, “and then we’ll take them into camp, as the Idiot would say.”

“I don’t know about that,” replied the genial gentleman.  “I’ve seen a great many concerts, and I’ve heard a great many good games of pool, but the concert last night was simply a ravishing spectacle.  We had a Cuban pianist there who played the orchestration of the first act of Parsifal with surprising agility.  As far as I could see, he didn’t miss a note, though it was a little annoying to observe how he used the pedals.”

“Too forcibly, or how?” queried the Idiot.

“Not forcibly enough,” returned the Imbiber.  “He tried to work them both with one foot.  It was the only thing to mar an otherwise marvellous performance.  The idea of a man trying to display Wagner with two hands and one foot is irritating to a musician with a trained eye.”

[Illustration:  “‘WEREN’T YOUR EARS LONG ENOUGH?’”]

“I wish the Doctor would come down,” said Mrs. Smithers, anxiously.

“Yes,” put in the School-master; “there seems to be madness in our midst.”

“Well, what can you expect of a Cuban, anyhow?” queried the Idiot.  “The Cuban, like the Spaniard or the Italian or the African, hasn’t the vigor which is necessary for the proper comprehension and rendering of Wagner’s music.  He is by nature slow and indolent.  If it were easier for a Spaniard to hop than to walk, he’d hop, and rest his other leg.  I’ve known Italians whose diet was entirely confined to liquids, because they were too tired to masticate solids.  It is the ease with which it can be absorbed that makes macaroni the favorite dish of the Italians, and the fondness of all Latin races for wines is entirely due, I think, to the fact that wine can be swallowed without chewing.  This indolence affects also their language.  The Italian and the Spaniard speak the language that comes easy—­that is soft and dreamy; while the Germans and Russians, stronger, more energetic, indulge in a speech that even to us, who are people of an average amount of energy, is sometimes appalling in the severity of the strain it puts upon the tongue.  So, while I do not wonder that your Cuban pianist showed woful defects in his use of the pedals, I do wonder that, even with his surprising agility, he had sufficient energy to manipulate the keys to the satisfaction of so competent a witness as yourself.”