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 payin' us for stayin' here and learnin' the profession. It's only fair that you get one-third. It's only O. K., ain't it, mother?

Sure it's O. K.

Gunnar sighed. All right, boys, if you say so.

After dinner, while Mrs. Hugo washed the dishes and Robin dried them, Hugo produced an accordion and began to play, not modern jazz tunes, but sentimental ballads of an earlier day, Sweet Rosie O'Grady. The Sidewalks of New York, and. The Belle of Avenue A. In a mood of reverie, Gunnar half-reclined beside Paul on a cot. When Hugo broke into I've got rings on my fingers, bells on my toes, Robin began to sing, elephants to ride upon, my little Irish Rose. Paul, Gunnar requested, his voice covered by the music, don't tell them where you've seen me before. They don't know anything about me. I pay my way here. I study their art—yes, it is an art—and that's all they have to know.

Of course, I won't say a word, Paul assured him. I couldn't tell them very much about you, unless I made it up. I want to know more about you than they do. . . . He had forgotten his decision to ask no more questions. . . . I was curious enough when I first met you. Well, now my ears, eyes, and mouth are wide open. What does it all mean?