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MEET ME ON THE BARRICADES

The second personal pronoun dripped with con-
tempt. But Simpson was now immune to insult; he
transcended all human baseness.

“I know how it is, maestro. We’ve been here since
two o’clock but we’ll stay all night until we get it
just the way you want it.”

Turano’s expression underwent a series of light-
ning changes: from stupefaction to amazement, as-
tonishment, surprise and finally pleasure. In turn he
was outraged, touched, overcome. At once contrition
overwhelmed him, brought him almost to the verge
of tears. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket,
dabbed at his damp forehead, wiped his moist eyes.

“All right, boys!” he said. “Let’s try it once more-
for the last time. You are all fine musicians. And
Seemson, you are a real artist-—a wonderful oboist.”

Once again he tapped the music-stand, once again
the music swelled. The dark waters of Tuonela roared
and the wind howled through the barren Finnish
ravines. Once more the brasses carried the melody,
high and lonely. . . .

Turano smiled; it was going superbly now. He
looked in the direction of his oboist and nodded
affably. But Simpson did not see; he was lost in an-
other fantasy.