"Well, I haven't," the other stated shortly. "They'll have to listen to
me without looking."
He borrowed a rusted razor and subjected himself to the pain of an
awkward shaving; then inadequately washed his sole shirt and looped the
frayed collar with a nondescript tie.
The night was immaculate; the moon, past the full, cast long segments
of light and shadow across the countryside. Harry Baggs drew a deep
breath:
"We might as well go."
French Janin objected; he wasn't ready; he wasn't quite sure of what he
was going to say. Then:
"I haven't anything to show. Perhaps they will laugh at me--at Janin,
of the Opera Comique. I couldn't allow that."
"I'm going to sing," the boy reminded him; "if it's any good they won't
laugh. If what you say's right they'll have to believe you."
"I feel bad to-night, too, in my legs."
"Get your violin."
A fresh difficulty arose: French Janin positively refused to play on
his present instrument before a critical audience.
"It's as thin as a cat," he protested. "Do you want me to make a show
of myself?"
"All right; I'll sing alone. Come on!"
Janin's legs were uncertain; he stumbled over the path to the road and
stopped at the fence. He expressed fresh doubts, the hesitation of old
age; but Harry Baggs silenced him, forced him on. A cold fear possessed
the boy, which he resolutely suppressed: if Janin were wrong, his voice
worthless, if they laughed, he was done. Opportunity, he felt, would
never return.
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