Suddenly a great volume of sound filled the corridor, and the band burst forth into what many supposed to be “The Watch on the Rhine.”  Some people were plainly delighted; the veterans, once recovered from their surprise, shouted their reminiscences above the music, undismayed; Jethro held on to himself until the refrain, when he began to squirm, and as soon as the tune was done and the scattering applause had died down, he reached over and grabbed Mr. Amasa Beard by the knee.  Mr. Beard did not immediately respond, being at that moment behind logworks facing a rebel charge; he felt vaguely that some one was trying to distract his attention, and in some lobe of his brain was registered the fact that that particular knee had gout in it.  Jethro increased the pressure, and then Mr. Beard abandoned his logworks and swung around with a snort of pain.

“H-how much do they git for that noise—­h-how much do they git?”

Mr. Beard tenderly lifted the hand from his knee and stared at Jethro with his mouth open, like a man aroused from a bad dream.

“Who?  What noise?” he demanded.

“The Dutchmen,” said Jethro.  “H-how much do they git for that noise?”

“Oh!” Mr. Beard glanced at the band and began to laugh.  He thought Jethro a queer customer, no doubt, but he was a friend of Comrade Prescott’s.  “By gum!” said Mr. Beard, “I thought for a minute a rebel chain-shot had took my leg off.  Well, sir, I guess that band gets about two dollars.  They’ve come in here every evening since I’ve been at the hotel.”

“T-two dollars?  Is that the price?  Er—­you say two dollars is their price?”

“Thereabouts,” answered Mr. Beard, uneasily.  Veteran as he was, Jethro’s appearance and earnestness were a little alarming.

“You say two dollars is their price?”

“Thereabouts,” shouted Mr. Beard, seating himself on the edge of his chair.

But Jethro paid no attention to him.  He rose, unfolding by degrees his six feet two, and strode diagonally across the corridor toward the band leader.  Conversation was hushed at the sight of his figure, a titter ran around the walls, but Jethro was oblivious to these things.  He drew a great calfskin wallet from an inside pocket of his coat, and the band leader, a florid German, laid down his instrument and made an elaborate bow.  Jethro waited until the man had become upright and then held out a two-dollar bill.

“Is that about right for the performance?” he said “is that about right?”

“Ja, mein Herr,” said the man, nodding vociferously.

“I want to pay what’s right—­I want to pay what’s right,” said Jethro.

“I thank you very much, sir,” said the leader, finding his English, “you haf pay for all.”

“P-paid for everything—­everything to-night?” demanded Jethro.

The leader spread out his hands.

“You haf pay for one whole evening,” said he, and bowed again.