If you start "Camptown Races" on F natural it’s all plain sailing; the same note is repeated so often that it is not difficult. Paul stretched out his legs luxuriously and pictured the amazing row he and Harry could produce on those two pianos in what he was pleased to call their "duet." Presently the man stopped playing on his unmelodious instrument and, looking over his spectacles across the room towards the door, saw Paul. He immediately took off his glasses, and his eyes were blue and keen and kind. Paul scrambled to his feet. "How d’you do?" he said politely. "I just called in as I was passing." The man looked rather astonished. "Where were you going?" he asked. Paul came slowly across the room until he stood close by the big desk. "Nowhere in particular. We’ve just come out for the day." "We!" the man repeated. "Are there any more of you?" And he looked rather anxious. "Only Thor," Paul answered reassuringly. "He’s sitting in the little room with the basin—I hope you don’t mind. We both drank some water, but we didn’t wash—not without leave. May Thor come in?" "He’d better, I think," said the man. "You may come in, my dear," Paul said, quietly, without raising his voice, and Thor, large, deliberate, and graceful, strolled into the room, looked inquiringly at the man, wagged his tail gently, and came and stood by his master. "This is Thor," said Paul. "Do you mind him?" "Not a bit!" said the man. "I like him." "Sometimes," Paul remarked, "people are afraid he’ll upset things; he’s so large, you know.... But it wouldn’t be easy to upset things here. Would you mind telling me why you kept playing that funny tune? Do you think it’s pretty?" "Tune?" the man repeated. "When?" "Just a minute ago—ever since I came in, _and_ outside. I heard you; it’s what made me come. I couldn’t think what it was." "Can you read?" asked the man. "Read!" Paul exclaimed. "I should think so; years and years ago." The man handed him one of the pages he had been playing. "That’s what I was doing," he said. "Why, it’s print!" cried Paul. "Exactly; nicer than hand-writing, isn’t it?" Paul’s quick eyes devoured the page. "Like Shakespeare," he added. The man laughed. "I only wish it was," he said. "It’s a play, anyway, isn’t it?" "It is." "And you’ve been making it up as you go along?" "Well, hardly that, but I scribble it down first, you know." "Does it spell for you?" Paul asked breathlessly. "No, it doesn’t, bother it—-that’s where it’s rather sniffy sometimes." "When I’m grown up," Paul said solemnly, "and rich—I hope I’ll be rich—I’ll have one of those, but I’ll get one that does the spelling as well. I suppose they _are_ made." "I haven’t come across one yet," said the man; "when I do I shall buy it at once——" "And you’ll tell me, won’t you?" Paul said eagerly. "I’ll let you know very first thing!"