“Why, certainly,” he replied; “there is as much a symphony of smells as of sounds; and the harmony of odors depends in like manner upon discords. As, for example, in a sonata that I was producing last night, the delicate fragrance of mignonette and of lilies of the valley was offset by an odor of Edam cheese.” It was with difficulty that I maintained the composure of my countenance, but His Royal Armpit was in earnest, and I dared not laugh. “Then you have scales for the smells?” “Exactly,” continued His Majesty, glowing with satisfaction at my appreciation of the subject, “there are minor odors, such as the essences of beeswax, of tan-bark, of most kinds of flowers and the various mixtures of tobacco, and so forth; and then there are major odors in which are included the rank smell of the poppy and of the milk-weed, of the sap of the pungent ailanthus tree, and of most of the concentrated acids, and what-not, and especially those odors of a high pitch, such as of molten soap and burning rubber. And this last bottle,” said he sharply, and at the same time giving vent to an unconcealed yawn, “this last bottle I open whenever visitors overstay their welcome.” Whereupon he pulled out one of the finger stops and pushed the base pedal. Instantly the chamber was filled with the vile stench of burning gutta-percha. At this strong hint I bade the Excelsior adieu, thanking him for his cordial reception of me, and then I repeated the custom of baring my arms before leaving his presence. A moment later Sandy came running into my room crying, “Lor’ maarstar, the house am on fire!” This information startled me, though I doubted its truth. “No, Sandy,” said I, “it is only the smell of burning rubber.” And upon making an investigation, Sandy discovered that I had for some inexplicable reason thrown my fountain pen into the fire. Probably in an absent-minded moment I mistook it for my half-burned segar. Such was the cause of the stench. Sandy reports that it is four o’clock in the morning. My lamp is just flickering. Perhaps I shall now be able to get a little sleep. VI My window is open, though it is a night in the late autumn. I have sat sipping this beverage until my brain is aroused to false action. Listen! There comes a band of music, marching. It is coming nearer and nearer until I can hear the human shouts of applause. I can see the crowd swaying and forging up the street past my window. I can see that they are escorting a chief to a rostrum where they may proclaim him leader! How grand and humble must he feel, knowing their expectations and his limitations. Hear the fighting, onward notes of that music! It seems to say for him: