Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 17

"Goin' to do it again, is he?" said Uncle William. "Now that's good of him, ain't it? But I should think he'd kind o' like to. I'd like to do it myself if I could."

"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest!" rolled out the voice.

"He gets the spirit of it," said the old gentleman when the song had ended and the applause had subsided.

"Jest so. I've been there myself--come within an ace o' havin' _my_ chest set on once. They was all fightin' drunk, too--jest like that.

Gives ye the same kind o' feelin's--creepy and s.h.i.+very-like. What's _he_ goin' to do?" A long-haired youth had appeared on the platform. He approached the piano and stood looking at it thoughtfully, his head a little to one side.

"It's Flanders. He plays the MacDowell--the 'Wandering Iceberg,' you know."

"H'm-m." Uncle William took down his spectacles to look at the youth through them. "You think he can do it all right? He ain't very hefty."

The youth had seated himself. He struck a heavy, thundering chord on the keys and subsided. His hands hung relaxed at his sides and his eyes were fixed dreamily on the wall before him.

"Has he got her started?" It was a loud whisper from Uncle William.

The old gentleman shook his head.

Uncle William waited patiently. There was a gentle trickle on the keys--and another. Then a pause and more trickles--then some galloping notes, with heavy work in the ba.s.s.

Uncle William looked interested. "She's gettin' under way, like enough.

"Sh-h!" The old gentleman held up a hand.

There were some long, flowing lines and a swirling sound that might have been water, and low growls in the ba.s.s, and a general rumbling and gritting and sliding and tumbling among the notes. The sounds stopped altogether. The youth sat staring before him. Applause broke from the audience. The youth got up and left the platform.

Uncle William stared after him with open mouth. "Has he got her done?"

He turned to the man at his side.

"All done. How did you like it?"

"Well"--Uncle William squinted thoughtfully at his program--"I thought I was goin' to like it fust-rate--if he'd got to it."

"He didn't get there, then?" The man laughed.

"Not to the iceberg." Uncle William shook his head. A kindly look grew in his face. "I dunno's he's so much to blame, though. An iceberg must be kind o' hard to do, I should think likely."

"_I_ should think it might be. Music isn't cold enough."

"'T ain't the cold," said Uncle William, hastily. "I run acrost an iceberg once. We was skirmis.h.i.+n' round up North, in a kind o' white fog, frosty-like, and cold--cold as blazes; and all of a sudden we was on her--close by her, somewheres, behind the frost. We wa'n't cold any more. It was about the hottest time I ever knew," he said thoughtfully.

"What happened?"

Uncle William roused himself. "Well, after a spell we knew she wa'n't there any more, and we cooled down some. But we wa'n't real cold--not for much as a day or so."

The youth had returned to the piano. The audience met him with wild applause, half-way, and he bowed solemnly from his hips. There was a weary look in his face.

Uncle William looked him over critically. "He don't more'n half like it, does he?"

The other man coughed a little. Then he laughed out.

Uncle William smiled genially. "I've seen his kind--a good many times.

Looks as if they was goin' to cry when you was feedin' 'em sugar. They gen'ally like it real well, too." He consulted his program. "Goin' to do a hammock, is he?"

The hammock began to sway, and Uncle William's big head rocked softly in time to it. "Some like it," he said when it was done; "not enough to make you sea-sick--jest easy swingin'."

The youth had not left the piano. He played "The Bars at Sunset," and "A Water Lily," and "The Eagle," and then the two sea pieces. Uncle William listened with mild attention.

When it was over and the audience had begun to disperse, Sergia came out. She approached Uncle William, scanning his face. "How did you like it?"

"They all done?" he demanded.

"Yes. Did you like the sea pieces?"

"I liked 'em. Yes--I liked 'em." Uncle William's tone was moderate.

Sergia was smiling at him a little. "The 'Depths of the Ocean'--you liked that best, didn't you?"

Uncle William looked guilty. "I knew you was goin' to ask me about that one," he said, "and I'd meant to listen hard--real hard--to it. I hain't ever been quite so far down as that, but I thought mebbe I could gauge it. But you see,"--his tone grew confidential and a little apologetic,--"when they got that far along, I couldn't really tell which was which. I wa'n't _plumb_ sure whether it was the eagle he was doin'

or the dep'hs, and it mixed me up some. I didn't jest know whether to soar up aloft or dive considabul deep. It kep' me kind o' teeterin'

betwixt and between--" He looked at her appealingly, yet with a little twinkle somewhere below.

"I see." Sergia's face was dancing. "The names _do_ help."

"That's it," said Uncle William, gallantly. "If he'd 'a' read off the names, or stopped quite a spell between the pieces, I'd 'a' done fust-rate. He was playin' 'em nice. I could see the folks liked 'em." He smiled at her kindly.

Sergia smiled back. "Yes, they like MacDowell. They think they understand him--when they know which it is." Her smile had grown frank, like a boy's. "But which did you like best of all?"

"Of the hull thing?" he demanded. He looked down at the program. "They was all nice," he said slowly--"real nice. I dunno when I've heard nicer singin' 'n playin'. But I reckon that one was about the nicest of the lot." He laid his big thumb on a number.

Sergia and the old gentleman bent to look. It was the Beethoven sonata.

Sergia glanced at the old gentleman. He met the glance, smiling. "A tribute to our hostess," he said.

"A tribute to Beethoven," returned Sergia. Then, after a moment, she laughed softly. Sergia was not addicted to MacDowell.

XV

Uncle William crept into the rooms like a thief, but the artist was sleeping soundly. He did not stir as the latch gave a little click in the lock. "That's good," said Uncle William. He had slipped off his shoes and was in his stocking feet. He stole over to the bed and stood looking down at the thin face. It was a little drawn, with hollow eyes.

"He'll perk considabul when he hears about them picters," said Uncle William.

But in the morning when, after breakfast, Uncle William announced his great news, the artist ignored it. "Is she coming--Sergia?"

Uncle William scowled his forehead in recollection. "Now, I can't seem to remember 't she said so."

"What _did_ she say?" The tone was imperative.