Few gave; a careless quarter was added to a small number of pennies and
nickels. Janin counted the sum with an unfamiliar oath.
"That other," he directed, and drew a second preliminary bar from his
uncertain instrument.
"Here, you!" a strident voice called. "Shut your noise; the sale's
going to commence."
French Janin lowered the violin.
"We must wait," he observed philosophically. "These things go on and
on; people come and go."
He found a bank, where he sat, after stumbling through a gutter of
stagnant water. Harry Baggs followed and filled a cheap ornate pipe.
The voice of the auctioneer rose, tiresome and persistent, punctuated
by bids, haggling over minute sums for the absurd flotsam of a small
house keeping square of worn oilcloth, a miscellany of empty jars. A
surprisingly passionate argument arose between bidders; personalities
and threats emerged. Janin said:
"Listen! That is the world into which musicians are born; it is against
such uproar we must oppose our delicate chords--on such hearts." His
speech rambled into French and a melancholy silence.
"It's stopped for a little," Baggs reminded him.
Janin rose stiffly and the other guided him to their former place. The
voice and violin rose, dominated a brief period, and the boy went among
the throng, seeking newcomers. The mist thickened, drops of water shone
on his ragged sleeves, and then a fine rain descended. The crowd filled
the porch and lower floor, bulged apparently from door and windows.
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