“Now, what kind of a tune is he on the track of, I wonder?” he mused. “I wish it hadn’t struck him until I’d had time to go over the Linder business with him.” But while Waldemar rubbed his head in cogitatation and the Honorable William Linder, in his Brooklyn headquarters, breathed charily, out of respect to his creaking rib, Average Jones was following fate northward. Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street is a house decrepit with a disease of the aged. Its windowed eyes are rheumy. It sags backward on gnarled joints. All its poor old bones creak when the winds shake it. To Average Jones’ inquiring gaze on this summer day it opposed the secrecy of a senile indifference. He hesitated to pull at its bell-knob, lest by that act he should exert a disruptive force which might bring all the frail structure rattling down in ruin. When, at length, he forced himself to the summons, the merest ghost of a tinkle complained petulantly from within against his violence. An old lady came to the door. She was sleek and placid, round and comfortable. She did not seem to belong in that house at all. Average Jones felt as if he had cracked open one of the grisly locust shells which cling lifelessly to tree trunks, and had found within a plump and prosperous beetle. “Was an advertisement for a trombone player inserted from this house, ma’am?” he inquired. “Long ago,” said she. “Am I too late, then?” “Much. It was answered nearly two months since. I have never,” said the old lady with conviction, “seen such a frazzled lot of folks as B-flat trombone players.” “The person who inserted the advertisement—?” “Has left. A month since.” “Could you tell where he went?” “Left no address.” “His name was Telford, wasn’t it?” said Average Jones strategically. “Might be,” said the old lady, who had evidently formed no favorable impression of her ex-lodger. “But he _called_ himself Ransom.” “He had a furnished room?” “The whole third floor, furnished.” “Is it let now?” “Part of it. The rear.” “I’ll take the front room.” “Without even looking at it?” “Yes.” “You’re a queer young man. As to price?” “Whatever you choose.” “You’re a _very_ queer young man. Are you a B-flat trombone player?” “I collect ’em,” said Average Jones. “References?” said the old lady abruptly and with suspicion. “All varieties,” replied her prospective lodger cheerfully. “I will bring ’em to-morrow with my grip.” For five successive evenings thereafter Average Jones sat in the senile house, awaiting personal response to the following advertisement which he had inserted in the _Universal:_ WANTED—B-flat trombonist. Must have had experience as street player. Apply between 8 and 10 p. m. R—, 300 East 100th Street.