And not only that, but Mr. Florance
offered me a singing part in his new drama, if I could play the
mandolin. I naturally told him I'd played the mandolin all my life. I
went out and bought a mandolin and hired a teacher. He wanted to
teach me the mandolin, but I only wanted him to teach me that one
accompaniment. So I fired him, and practised by myself night and day
for a week. I got through all the rehearsals without ever singing
that song. Cleverest dodging I ever did! On the first night I was
so nervous I could scarcely hold the mandolin. I'd never played the
infernal thing before anybody at all--only up in my bedroom. I struck
the first chord, and found the darned instrument was all out of tune
with the orchestra. So I just pretended to play it, and squawked away
with my song, and never let my fingers touch the strings at all. Old
Florance was waiting for me in the wings. I knew he was going to
fire me. But no! 'Sachs,' he said, 'that accompaniment was the most
delicate piece of playing I ever heard. I congratulate you.' He was
quite serious. Everybody said the same! Luck, eh?"
"I should say so," said Edward Henry, gradually beginning to be
interested in the odyssey of Mr. Seven Sachs. "I remember a funny
thing that happened to me--"
"However," Mr. Sachs swept smoothly along, "that piece was a
failure. And Archibald arranged to take a company to Europe with
'Forty-Niners.
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