"I only wanted to say, sir," continued d.i.c.k, quietly, "that this last time I didn't blow a note."

"Well, of all the impudence! Then, pray, sir, what was the meaning of that hideous discord?"

"I don't know, sir. I presume that someone's instrument is not in tune."

"Someone's instrument not in tune!" cried the bandmaster. "Here, Jones, Morris, Bigham, run through half a dozen bars."

He waved his wand, and the three musicians blew together without the ba.s.s and tenor instruments, with a worse effect than ever, and the listening bra.s.ses burst out into a fresh roar of laughter; while d.i.c.k had hard work, in his triumph, to suppress a smile.

"Then it's you, Jones!"

"No, sir," said the flute-player. "I'm all right!"

"You can't be!" cried the other two men, indignantly.

"He's playing in the wrong key," said the first.

"That I ain't!" cried the flute-player. "I'm all right, I tell you! It was the new chap."

"How could it be the new chap when he was _not_ blowing, idiot?" cried the bandmaster, angrily, trying hard to hedge and preserve his character for consistency. "Here, you Smithson, run through those few bars with the others. No; not you, Jones."

The flautist sulkily lowered his flute, while the theme was now played as a trio with admirable effect.

"Humph! not bad--not bad at all," said Wilkins, as a murmur of satisfaction arose from the men.

Meanwhile, the flautist was turning over his flute and glancing from it to the beautiful instrument d.i.c.k held.

"Now," cried the leader, "run through that again, Jones--or, no, with the clarionet."

He beat time and the two instruments sounded; but, at the end of the first bar, the clarionet-player took the reed from his lips.

"'Tain't good enough, sir!" he said.

"Good enough!" cried Wilkins, angrily; "it's disgraceful!"

"Yer never thought it disgraceful till this new chap come," cried the discomfited flute-player. "Who's to play proper on a thing like this?

Look at his!"

"Hold your tongue, stoopid!" whispered the nearest man. "You'll be getting yourself in a row."

"Look at his flute!" cried Wilkins. "Why, he'd get more music out of a tin whistle than you would out of his. Here, you Smithson, see what you can do with that flute. Now, my lads, once again."

d.i.c.k took Jones's flute unwillingly for more than one reason. He felt that he was making an enemy of the man; but there was no time for hesitation, and, as they struck up, he played his part admirably upon the strange instrument, and then stood waiting.

"Give him his flute," said Wilkins, shortly. "Don't you go abusing our band instruments again, young man, or you'll be finding yourself sent back to the ranks. Now, please, we're losing time."

And so the practice went on d.i.c.k, feeling that he was making enemies all round till, about an hour after, when he was in the long-room, and half a dozen of the bandsmen came in together, looked at him, then at one another, and one of them said--

"I'm glad you've joined."

"We've been thinking it over, and we're going to see if we can't work up some better music now. Never you mind about Wilkins; his bark's worse than his bite."

"And he likes to show off," said another. "Wants people to think what a clever one he is. We'll have some quiet practices together, if you like."

"I shall be very glad," said d.i.c.k eagerly.

"That's right, and you can give us a few hints. Wilkins turned nasty through that snubbing he got over yonder, at the mess-room, but he'll soon come round. I'm sorry, though, about old Jones."

"So am I," cried d.i.c.k; "I quite felt for him this afternoon."

"Yes, he never ought to have been put to music. I hope he won't turn nasty," said the first speaker, "for he's got a temper of his own. But, there, you needn't mind him."

"No," thought d.i.c.k, "I need not mind him; but I don't like making enemies, all the same."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

d.i.c.k FINDS A PUPIL.

"No one would know me now," said the recruit to himself one morning as he glanced at his face in a piece of looking-gla.s.s, for the military barber had been operating upon his head, and had--as the _Punch_ man said in the hot weather in allusion to his hair--"cut it to the bone."

For the first time Richard Frayne dressed in his tightly-fitting, stiff uniform.

"Hallo, Flutey!" said one of the men; "I was looking for you. Got 'em on, then?"

"Yes," said d.i.c.k, smiling. "Do they fit?"

"Oh, yes, pretty tidy. Feel all right?"

"No; I don't think I can get my hand up level with my mouth, and the tunic feels as if it would split up the back, and the b.u.t.tons go flying, the first time I move."

"Oh, that'll be all right. Sure to feel a bit stiff at first. I say, he has padded you out well in the chest and over the shoulders."

"Yes, far too much."

"Not a bit of it. Makes you look broader-chested and square-shouldered--more of the man. But, here, Lieutenant Lacey wants you up at his quarters. Sent that chuckle-headed Joe Todd, his servant, to fetch you directly."

"What does he want?" cried d.i.c.k, aghast with the idea that something had been found out.

"Go and ask him."

"But I must change first."

"Nonsense! Go as you are. You've got to wear the red now," added the man, with a grin.

d.i.c.k went down into the barrack yard, to find the lieutenant's servant waiting, and followed him, with the peculiar tremor increasing, and a cold, dank perspiration breaking out about his temples and in the palms of his hands.