Free The Ragtime Kid by Larry Karp

and stool behind Brun. “All right. Let’s hear you play something.”
    Brun sat himself at the piano, rolled his sleeves, and commenced to play “Maple Leaf.” By the time he finished with his customary flourish, hands high above the keyboard, three men and a couple of women who’d wandered inside to listen, clapped and made complimentary remarks to Stark. Which, naturally, Brun appreciated no end. One of the men was colored, an older fellow with a great deal of white wool up top, and a raggedy plaid shirt and overalls. “Hey, Young Mister,” the colored man called. “Where you learn jig-music from?”
    Brun smiled at the old man. He was getting used to that sort of question, and didn’t mind in the least. “That is ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’ Taught to me by Otis Saunders, and composed by Mr. Scott Joplin. Right here in Sedalia.”
    “My, my,
my
.” The old man raised his eyebrows, protruded his lower lip, and nodded vigorously. “You play as good as any colored I ever did hear.”
    “Do you have the music for that?” one of the women asked Mr. Stark.
    Stark shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”
    Brun slid off the stool; the little crowd drifted out the door. Stark stared at Brun, then finally said, “You say Scott Joplin composed that piece?”
    “‘Maple Leaf Rag’? Yes, sir. At least, according to Otis Saunders.” The boy noticed Stark’s hands shook. “Did you like it okay?”
    “Okay? I should say so, and then some. It’s extraordinary. But tell me now, Brun, do you have any experience selling music?”
    On the point of lying, the boy stopped himself. Those eyes would pick him right up. “No, sir,” Brun said. “But I am a quick learner.”
    “You are, you say?” Stark pulled at his beard. “Yes, I’ll wager you are. You seem a clever young man…perhaps even a little sly? But you’ve got to be reliable. If you’re not, don’t waste your time and mine. If you are, I guess I can use you.”
    “I can be as reliable as required, sir.”
    Again, Stark tugged his beard. The corners of his mouth bent upward. “Very well, then. If you are both reliable and responsible, I’ll employ you part-time, at least to start. One o’clock to five, six days, twelve dollars a week. You’ll wait on customers and play piano as needed. If you work out well, we’ll talk about full-time employment. How does that sound to you?”
    It sounded so good to Brun, it took him a moment to answer. He remembered the way his friends in El Reno fought with each other over jobs in penny-candy stores and bakeries, but picturing himself working in this music shop, he felt envy of no boy or man. “It sounds very good, sir,” he said. “Thank you. You won’t be disappointed.”
    “I trust not. And I also trust that since this is a music store, not a music hall, you can play songs I have on sheets to sell.”
    “I can play whatever you like, sir. And I can play it so people won’t be able to take a step out the door without carrying away a sheet.”
    Stark’s eyes opened wide. He laughed aloud. Then he pointed toward the piano and stool. “Let’s see.”
    Brun quickly sat back at the piano and by way of a warmup, knocked out a medley of Stephen Foster tunes, “Old Folks at Home,” “Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair,” and “Camptown Races.” Then he did a real barnburner of “The Glendy Burk,” and, without stopping, turned it up a notch for “Daisy Bell.” People walked in off the street, one at a time and in pairs. Brun swung into a lively cakewalk he’d learned a few months before off sheet music from the music store in El Reno. The crowd around the piano buzzed and pointed, and a young woman asked the name of that tune. “It’s called ‘At a Georgia Camp Meeting,’ ma’am,” Brun said. “By Mr. Kerry Mills, and it’s the hottest new tune around. You can’t walk down a street in St. Louis or Kansas City, and not hear it.”
    The woman turned to Stark and asked him for a copy of the music. Two