They stumbled from shelter to
shelter, but found them full. One at last was discovered unoccupied;
but they had no sooner entered than the reason was sharply borne upon
them--the roof leaked to such an extent that the floor was an uneasy
sheet of mud. However, there was literally nowhere else for them to go.
Janin found a broken chair on which he balanced his bowed and shrunken
form; Harry Baggs sat against the wall.
He dozed uneasily, and, wakened by the old man's babbling, cursed him
bitterly. At last he fell asleep; but, brought suddenly back to
consciousness by a hand gripping his shoulder, he started up in a blaze
of wrath.
He shook off the hand and heard French Janin slip and fall against an
insecure wall. The interior was absolutely black; Harry Baggs could see
no more than his blind companion. The latter fumbled, at last regained
a footing, and his voice fluctuated out of an apparent nothingness.
"There is something important for you to know," Janin proceeded.
"I lied to you about your voice--I, once a musician of the orchestra at
the Opera Comique. I meant to be cunning and take you round to the
fairs, where we would make money; have you sing truck for people who
know nothing. I let you sing to-day, in the rain, for a dollar--while
I, Janin, fiddled.
"I am a _voyou_; there is nothing in English low enough. The
thought of it has been eating at me like a rat." The disembodied words
stopped, the old man strangled and coughed; then continued gasping:
"Attention! You have a supreme barytone, a miracle! I heard all the
great voices for twenty years, and know.
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