Louis laughed.  “He say ze countree of Franz Liszt know no poor museeck.  He named for Franz Liszt.  He play beeg museeck for you and ze ladee last night.  So?”

“He did—­and took us off our feet.  Tell him, will you?”

“He no un’erstand,” laughed Louis, “eef I tell him ‘off de feet.’”

“That’s so—­no American idioms yet for him, eh?  Well, say he made us very happy with his wonderful music.  I’ll wager that will get over to him.”

Plainly it did, to judge by the eloquence of Franz’s eyes and his joyous smile.  With quick speech he responded.

“He say,” reported Louis, “he vant to vork for you.  No wagees till he plees you.  He do anyting.  You van’ heem?”

“Well, I’ll have to think about that,” Burns temporized.  “But tell him not to worry.  We’ll find a job before we let him go.  He ought to play in a restaurant or theatre, oughtn’t he, Louis?”

Louis shook his head.  “More men nor places,” he said.  “But ve see—­ve see.”

“All right.  Now ask him how he came to stand in front of my house in the storm and fiddle.”

To this Louis obtained a long reply, at which he first shook his head, then nodded and laughed, with a rejoinder which brought a sudden rush of tears to the black eyes below.  Louis turned to Burns.

“He say man lead heem here, make heem stand by window, make sign to heem to play.  I tell heem man knew soft heart eenside.”

To the edge of his coppery hair the blood rushed into the face of Red Pepper Burns.  Whether he would be angry or amused was for the moment an even chance, as Ellen, watching him, understood.  Then he shook his fist with a laugh.

“Just wait till I catch that fellow!” he threatened.  “A nice way out of his own obligations to a starving fellow man.”

He sent Louis back to town on the electric car line, with a round fee in his pocket, and the instruction to leave no stone unturned to find Franz work for his violin, himself promising to aid him in any plan he might formulate.

In three days the young Hungarian was so far himself that Burns had him downstairs to sit by the office fire, and a day more put him quite on his feet.  Careful search had discovered a temporary place for him in a small hotel orchestra, whose second violin was ill, and Burns agreed to take him into the city.  The evening before he was to go, Ellen invited a number of her friends and neighbours in to hear Franz play.

Dressed in a well-fitting suit of blue serge Franz looked a new being.  The suit had been contributed by Arthur Chester, Burns’s neighbour and good friend next door upon the right, and various other accessories had been supplied by James Macauley, also Burns’s neighbour and good friend next door upon the left and the husband of Martha Macauley, Ellen’s sister.  Even so soon the rest and good food had filled out the deepest hollows in the emaciated cheeks, and happiness had lighted the sombre eyes.  Those eyes followed Burns about with the adoring gaze of a faithful dog.