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 skill and grace as Busoni would put into the performance of a Bach fugue. Paul was overcome by amazement and admiration.

Bravo! he cried.

Mrs. Hugo, occupied before the stove, preparing supper, turned, flushing with pleasure.

The Samsons can't do it like that, she announced. You know they're all wet.

Apple-sauce, Hugo rejoined. It don't matter how they do it. What matters is they done it. He assumed once more his non-professional air of dejection.

Well, cheer up, my lads, O'Grady urged. You'll have to think up a new one.

Yes, that's it! Robin echoed doubtfully. We gotta think of a new one.

We only got three days, Hugo deplored.

That's time enough, Gunnar declared. Come on, boys. Let's get to work.

Paul, more and more astonished, a picture of bright wonderment, indeed, now completely out of the scene, except as a spectator, sank into a chair and watched the maneuvres. Not altogether to his surprise, perhaps, for he had already received sufhcient evidence regarding O'Grady's versatile prowess so that the successful accomplishment of anything that young man might have attempted would not have astonished him too much, Gunnar signalled his entrance into the practice of his comrades by a spring across the mat, followed by a couple of light