“A composer, eh?”

Archie felt that he should have guessed this.  The chappie had a distinctly artistic look.  He wore a bow-tie and all that sort of thing.  His trousers bagged at the knees, and his hair, which during the martial epoch of his career had been pruned to the roots, fell about his ears in luxuriant disarray.

“Say!  Do you want to hear the best thing I’ve ever done?”

“Indubitably,” said Archie, politely.  “Carry on, old bird!”

“I wrote the lyric as well as the melody,” said Wilson Hymack, who had already seated himself at the piano.  “It’s got the greatest title you ever heard.  It’s a lallapaloosa!  It’s called ’It’s a Long Way Back to Mother’s Knee.’  How’s that?  Poor, eh?”

Archie expelled a smoke-ring doubtfully.

“Isn’t it a little stale?”

“Stale?  What do you mean, stale?  There’s always room for another song boosting Mother.”

“Oh, is it boosting Mother?” Archie’s face cleared.  “I thought it was a hit at the short skirts.  Why, of course, that makes all the difference.  In that case, I see no reason why it should not be ripe, fruity, and pretty well all to the mustard.  Let’s have it.”

Wilson Hymack pushed as much of his hair out of his eyes as he could reach with one hand, cleared his throat, looked dreamily over the top of the piano at a photograph of Archie’s father-in-law, Mr. Daniel Brewster, played a prelude, and began to sing in a weak, high, composer’s voice.  All composers sing exactly alike, and they have to be heard to be believed.

“One night a young man wandered through the glitter of Broadway:  His money he had squandered.  For a meal he couldn’t pay.”

“Tough luck!” murmured Archie, sympathetically.

    “He thought about the village where his boyhood he had
     spent, And yearned for all the simple joys with which
     he’d been content.”

“The right spirit!” said Archie, with approval.  “I’m beginning to like this chappie!”

“Don’t interrupt!”

“Oh, right-o!  Carried away and all that!”

“He looked upon the city, so frivolous and gay; And,
as he heaved a weary sigh, these words he then did say: 
It’s a long way back to Mother’s knee,
Mother’s knee,
Mother’s knee: 
It’s a long way back to Mother’s knee,
Where I used to stand and prattle
With my teddy-bear and rattle: 
Oh, those childhood days in Tennessee,
They sure look good to me! 
It’s a long, long way, but I’m gonna start to-day! 
I’m going back,
Believe me, oh! 
I’m going back
(I want to go!)
I’m going back—­back—­on the seven-three
To the dear old shack where I used to be! 
I’m going back to Mother’s knee!”

Wilson Hymack’s voice cracked on the final high note, which was of an altitude beyond his powers.  He turned with a modest cough.

“That’ll give you an idea of it!”