Yet, under the old man's fluctuating tuition, he actually began the Serenade within twenty-four hours. “_Deh vieni alla finestra_,” French Janin pronounced. “_Deh vieni_----” Harry Baggs struggled after him. His brow grew wet with the intensity of his effort; his tongue, it seemed to him, would never accomplish the desired syllables. Janin made a determined effort to live without his drug; the abstinence emphasized his fragility and he was cold, even in the heart of the long sunny day; but the effort stayed him with a flickering vitality, bred visions, renewed hopes of the future. He repeated the names of places, opera houses--the San Carlo, in Naples; the Scala--unknown to Harry Baggs, but which came to him with a strange vividness. The learning of the Serenade progressed slowly; French Janin forgot whole phrases, some of which returned to memory; one entire line he was forced to supply from imagination. At last the boy could sing it with a degree of intelligence; Janin translated and reconstructed the scene, the characters. “You ought to have some good clothes,” he told Harry Baggs; he spoke again of the necessity of a diamond stud. “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 Opéra 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. With his voice scorned, no impetus remained; he had no other interest in life, no other power that could subdue the slight inward flaw. He saw this in a vivid flash of self-knowledge.... If he couldn't sing he would go down, lower than Janin; perhaps sink to the level of Dake. “Come on!” he repeated grimly, assisting his companion over the luminous white road.