"'You boys trusted me,' says Schneider, 'and I remembered just in time. I
remembered your picture. I may not be an artist, but I don't let a
masterpiece burn up. Not in my saloon. So I save it. It is the only thing
I save out of the whole saloon.' And he wrings Broun's hand, and I say,
'thanks.' That night, all night long, I played Beethoven. The Ninth
Symphony is good for feelings such as mine and Broun's."
* * * * *
It is cooler in the Art Institute and Max, smiling in memory of other
days, looks at the Broun exhibition.
"I could finish the story by telling you excitedly that this landscape
here is the picture Schneider saved," he went on, pointing to one of the
large canvases. "But no. It wouldn't be the truth. I have the picture
home. It is not yet worth $2,000, but in a few years more, who knows?
Maybe I have cause to thank Schneider yet."
SATRAPS AT PLAY
The elfin-faced danseuse puts it over. Her voice sounds like a run-down
fifteen-cent harmonica. But that doesn't matter. Not at two a.m. in an
all-night cabaret. You don't need a voice to knock us out of our seats.
You need something else--pep.
"I wanna be--in Tennuhsee," the elfin-faced one squeaks.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172