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Pinton. If you are born that way, all the punishments and preachments excuse the alliteration will not stand in your way as a warning. I have done time I mean I have served several terms of imprisonment, but luckily not for a long period. I suffered most by my incarceration in not having a piano.
Subtle finger pressures, the unloosening of the muscles, the delicate art of nuance, the art unfelt by many organists, all were demanded of the pianist, and Pinton almost despaired. He grew contemptuous of the king of instruments as he essayed the C major invention of Bach.
After a pause, full of pain and troublous previsions of a restless, discontented night, Pinton grew angry and pulled at the knob of the door, thinking, perhaps, that it might abate a jot of its dignified resistance. It remained immovable, grimly antagonistic, until his fingers grew hot and cold as they touched a bit of cold metal. The key in the lock!
Pinton felt the ground heave beneath him. What possible job could the man mean? What was a "glim," and what did the fellow suggest by silver plate? Then it struck him all of a sudden. Heavens! he was taken for a burglar by a burglar. His presence in the pie pantry had been misinterpreted by a cracksman; and he, the harmless organist of Dr.
Let the galled jade wince, his breakfast appetite would be unwrung; and then he started violently, lost his balance, and almost fell to the floor. Opposite him was the window of the pantry, which faced the wall of the next house. Pinton had never been in the pantry by daylight, so he was rudely shocked by the glance of a light a cursory, moving light.
The following Friday was rehearsal night, and the organist left his choir in a bad humour. His contralto had not attended, and as she was the only artiste and the only good-looking girl of the lot, Pinton took it into his head to become jealous. She had not paid the slightest attention to him, so he could not attribute her absence to a personal slight; but he felt aggrieved and vaguely irritated.
"Yes," admitted Pinton, "I am an organist, and an organist who would fain become a pianist." The other started. "I am a pianist myself, and yet I cannot say that I would like to play the organ." "You are a pianist?" said Pinton, in a puzzled voice. "Well, why not? I studied in Paris, and I suppose my piano technic stood me in good stead in my newer profession.
The voice was low, kindly in intonation, but it went through Pinton like a saw biting its way into wood. He sat down all in a heap. He knew the eyes; he knew the voice. It was the owner of the dark lantern the mysterious man in the other house of that last Saturday night. Pinton felt as if he were about to become ill. "Lord, but you are a nervous one!" said the other, most reassuringly.
At last Mendelssohn's organ sonatas were reached and with them a call organists, like pastors, have calls to a fashionable church. The salary was fair and Mr. Pinton grew side-whiskers. He heard Paderewski play Chopin, and became a crazy lover of the piano. He hired a small upright and studied finger exercises.
Close by he was handsome and engaging. His hair was worn like a violin virtuoso's, and his hands were white, delicate, and well cared for. He spoke first. "How did you make out on that job? I don't fancy there was much in it. Boarding-houses, you know!" Pinton, every particle of colour leaving his flabby face, asked: "What job?" The stranger looked at him keenly and went on rather ironically:
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