With the coating of lather still on my face, I took the coat down and explained the instrument. The men listened like children as I switched the current on and off, explained the dry cell battery, the ear piece and the receiver. I let them try it at the ear until they were satisfied—all but the Irishman. He looked at the machine for a moment and then glanced at me and raised his voice: “Ye poor thing; ye don’t hear nothin’, do ye?” “Not much. I have the advantage of you, for you must listen to everybody. I don’t have to. I am sure you have heard things today you were sorry to hear.” “Ain’t that right now? But don’t nobody ever come and bawl ye out?” “No; not even my wife, for, you see, her throat would give out before my ears would give in. Bawling out a deaf man is no joke for the bawler!” “Well, it’s good to be delivered from the women; they have tongues like a fish-hook, ’tis true. But don’t ye hear no good music?” “No; I have not heard natural music for years; the little that comes to me seems to have some tin-pan drumming in it.” “But, say, mister, don’t ye hear no good music in your dreams? I ask ye that now—as man to man. Have ye no singing dreams?” “Yes, that is the strangest part of it. While I am asleep music often comes to me, such music as, I am sure, mortal rarely hears. It seems to me like music far beyond this world.” “Ah, but don’t ye hate to wake up and leave that music behind ye? Don’t ye hate to come back to life, where ye hear no sound? Ain’t it terrible to think God has forsaken ye by shutting out music? Wouldn’t ye rather be dead when ye might sleep forever with music in your ears?” “No; for God has not forsaken me. I have my work to do in the world, and I must do it. I will not run away from a thing like this. I will rise above it. You see, I have friends. You are interested, and I know you would help me if I needed help.” “Would I not, now? Just put that tail-piece to your ear.” I hesitated for a moment, but he repeated, sternly: “Put that tail-piece to your ear and let on the juice again right away.” With the cold lather still on my face, I put up the ear piece and turned on the current. Then a beautiful thing happened. My Irish friend took off his hat, put his mouth close to my receiver, and began to sing. He had a beautiful tenor voice, and it came to me sweet and clear, while the barber and the others gathered to listen. “Kathleen mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking, The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill. The lark from her gray wing the bright dew is shaking— Oh, Kathleen mavourneen,—what? lingering still? Oh, hast thou forgotten, this day we must sever, Oh, hast thou forgotten, this day we must part?”