“Papa can stand no more! How, then, can I break this to him?” The
speaker, a radiantly beautiful young girl, stood sobbing in the
great musical emporium of Harry M. Daly & Co.
“Consider me a policeman and not a piano-mover.” As he said these
words, Paul Postelwaite came forward with his hat in his hand. For
all he knew the damsel in distress might be a carriage customer,
and, besides, he was afraid if he left his hat in the shipping
department a member of the firm might steal it.
“Oh, sir,” replied the beautiful young girl, “I saw a pianola
advertisement some time ago which said: ‘_With this instrument
anyone can play the piano._’ And I, taking all my little savings,
bought one for papa!”
“Yes?”
“It arrived to-day. Too late, I perceive that a pianola is an
instrument from which music can only be extorted by the feet, and
poor papa was run over by an electric car and lost both legs.
[Illustration: “_As he said these words, Paul Postelwaite came
forward._”]
“It was all my little savings, as I have said. The firm will not
take the pianola back, and my poor papa has no visible means of
support.”
“But you can sue the street railway company for damages,” said
Paul, soothingly.
“We threatened to do that, but the railroad company only said papa
should consider he was sufficiently damaged and they did not see
why he should sue for any more. However, they said we might bring
the matter into court and they would see what they could do to his
character.”
“Go home, little one,” said Paul Postelwaite, kindly, “and I will
come around this evening and play the pianola for your papa myself.”
The foregoing will show that although Paul moved in musical circles
he was neither a sharp nor a flat. His worst predilection was that
he continually talked shop, for his last words to his distressed
young confidant were, “Compose yourself!”
Paul Postelwaite had long resolved upon a musical career. He knew
the pitfalls of the profession. On every side of him he saw and
heard the unfortunates who played the piano to excess. A hater of
discord, he resolved to save the victims of piano-playing from
themselves. To this end he studied piano-moving.
Most pianos are bought on the instalment plan. Most payers for
pianos bought on this plan fall behind in their instalments. It was
Paul’s duty to call and take away the pianos of those who had been
remiss.
He bore abuse and vituperation, not with stolid indifference but
with the conscientious feeling that he was a public benefactor.
He had the reward of public appreciation. People afflicted by
proximity to those who played the piano to excess no longer
complained to the Board of Health. They ascertained if any payments
were overdue on the instrument of torture, and then they sent for
Paul.
Paul’s father had been a piano-maker. But he had been overtaken by
misfortune. He made pianos for the big department stores.
But while he only made one grade of piano, he was compelled by the
exigencies of his trade to stencil them with so many different
names that he forgot his own. And one day, while suffering
from loss of memory in this regard, he signed a name not his
own to a check and was compelled to retire from business to
Ossining-on-Hudson.
His father’s parting advice had been, “Never forget who you are, my
boy!”