With his
cap tightly grasped in both hands, he tiptoed down the center aisle
and stood breathlessly drinking in the wonderful tones that seemed to
be coming from his own heart.
"Get out of the way, boy," said an usher. "You are blocking the
aisle."
A queer-appearing lady who looked like a man touched his elbow.
"Here's a seat," she said in a deep voice.
"Thank you, sir," said Sandy, absently. He scarcely knew whether he
was sitting or standing. He only wanted to be let alone, so that he
could listen to those strange, beautiful sounds that made a shiver of
joy go down his back. Art had had her day; it was Music's turn.
When the last number had been played, he turned to the queer lady:
"Do they do it every night?"
She smiled at his enthusiasm: "Wednesdays and Saturdays."
"Say," said Sandy, confidentially, "if you come first do you save me
a seat, and I'll do the same by you."
From that time on he decided to be a musician, and he lived on two
scanty meals a day in order to attend the concerts.
But this exalted scheme of high thinking and plain living soon became
irksome. One day, when his loneliness weighed most heavily upon him,
he was sent with a message out to the switch-station. As he tramped
back along the track he spied a familiar figure ahead of him.
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