Meanwhile, Mr. Whacker has not been idle. He has been giving his wondering and interested guest an account of what I have just narrated to the reader; omitting, naturally, many things that I have said; saying many things that I have omitted; telling his story, that is, in his own way. Let us drop in upon them and see where they are. “This was in 1855,—five years ago. How have you managed to supply M. Villemain’s place during all this time? Have you succeeded in developing the local talent?” “Local talent? Bless you, no. I labored faithfully with my grandson, but had to give him up,—no taste that way. Then there was a young fellow, the son of a neighbor,—young William Jones,—who is now at the University. I had great hopes of him when he began to take lessons; but the scamp was too lazy to practise his exercises, and pretended he couldn’t see any tune in classical music. Perfectly absurd! However,” quickly added Mr. Whacker, observing that his guest was silent, “the majority are of his way of thinking. Bill is a capital fiddler, however, and is invaluable at our dancing parties. He will be down Christmas, and you will hear him.” “I should like very much to do so,” replied the Don, rather stiffly. “His ‘Arkansas Traveller’ is an acknowledged m-m-m-masterpiece,” chimed in Charley, “and his ‘B-B-B-Billy in the Low Grounds’ the despair of every other fiddler in the county.” “I should like very much indeed to hear him,” said the stranger, laughing heartily at Charley’s neatly turned phrase, over which his stammering threw a quaint halo of added humor. “And so you had to give him up also, Mr. Whacker?” “Yes, I had to give them all up, except Charley here.” And he gave that young man’s knee a vigorous slap, accompanied with an admiring glance. “You could hardly guess how I manage. You see Mr. Waldteufel visits Baltimore twice a year to lay in a stock of music and other articles needed by his pupils, and he has instructions to look about him and pick up, if possible, some violinist newly landed in the country, or one temporarily out of employment; or perhaps he may find an artist desiring a vacation, to whom a few weeks in the country would be a tempting bait. All such he is at liberty to invite to Elmington,—provided, of course,” added Mr. Whacker, with a wave of his hand, “provided they be proper persons.” “Or the reverse,” soliloquized Charley, prying narrowly, as he spoke, into the bowl of his pipe. “Or the what?” “I addressed an observation to my p-p-p-pipe.” “Well, suppose they _are_ sometimes rather—in fact—rather—what difference, pray, does it make to us two bachelors? You will no doubt think, Mr. Smith, that this is a quartet under difficulties,—and so it is, but it is a quartet after all. If not, in dissenting phrase, a ‘stated,’ it is, at least, an ‘occasional service of song.’” “Goot for de Barrone!” quoted Charley.