"Then, if it doesn't get your fat down, you could come in the band.

You'd look splendid, marching along with that great bra.s.s instrument!"

"Not chaffing me, are you?" said the sergeant, suspiciously.

"Chaffing? No, man. There, I'll speak out frankly to show you how sincere I am. It does look absurd to see you puffing and panting along at the double with your company. Don't be offended."

"No, my lad--no. It does look very stupid. n.o.body knows it better than I do."

"But, marching with the band, your size would not be noticed, especially as you would be carrying that great bra.s.s ba.s.s instrument with its huge bell-mouth."

"Well, do you know, I'm beginning to like that idea, Smithson. But I'm not very clever over music. Big drum seems more in my way."

"Oh, no. You could soon get on with a ba.s.s instrument. Have you ever learnt anything?"

"Tin whistle, when I was a boy."

"Oh, that would not help you much. You say you'll try, and I'll help you."

"Try," cried the sergeant. "I'd try bugling;" and he soon after left the room with the understanding that, Mr Wilkins being willing, he was to begin his practice the very next day.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

d.i.c.k SMITHSON SEES A GHOST.

A bright, brisk, early spring morning, with bugles sounding, the tramp of feet, an occasional hoa.r.s.e shout, and, out in the sunshine, gleams of light flashing in all directions from well-burnished bra.s.s ornament or rifle-stock; while the generally dismal-looking barrack yard was gay as a garden-bed newly planted with scarlet geraniums in full bloom.

But there was this difference: the floral effects in front of the dingy buildings surrounding the yard were all in motion, for the men were collecting fast, and in obedience to the sharp "Fall in!" roughly formed line after line, each man making for his company.

The bandsmen, too, were collecting, like the men of the regiment, in full review order; for that day there was to be a march out to meet the 310th, now on its way to take up quarters in the High Barracks, and the band of the 205th were to play them in through the town to their new quarters.

Quite an unnecessary proceeding, but one of those forms which, provided the weather is good, proves satisfactory to the British soldier; for it means show, excitement, a pleasant tramp, and something to relieve the deadly monotony of barrack-life, with its eternal drill and routine.

No morning could have been more genial for the purpose, and the prospect of a few miles' march, with the people of town and village _en fete_, was a welcome one to all but the men in the infirmary, who were looking gloomily from the windows at their comrades, all spick and span, eager for the change.

Then, with the sun flashing from the bra.s.s instruments, the band formed up, all the officers began to drop down from their quarters, best uniforms being the order of the day, as there were no signs of rain; and, at last, after a few sharp orders from the sergeants, the companies were formed, the preliminary examinations made, and the usual adjurations delivered respecting b.u.t.tons, belts, and suspicious spots.

But there was not much cause for complaint, and the men were well in place when the trampling of horses was heard. The men stood to their arms, and the mounted colonel and major came slowly up to the front; while a group of officers pa.s.sed to and fro along the line of well-drilled young fellows, who made up one of the smartest corps in the service.

A few movements, performed with wonderful accuracy, giving the regiment the aspect of some peculiar piece of mechanism, and then the order was given, "Band to the front!" A brief pause, a sharp command or two, and then _boom_--_boom_--_boom_--_boom_, so many beats of the big drum, a crash from the bra.s.s instruments, which came echoing strangely back from the barrack walls, and away they went toward the gates, where half the boys and idlers of the neighbourhood were waiting, ready to give a cheer as the drum-and-fife band pa.s.sed out first in solemn silence, followed by little Wilkins, looking very important at the head of the bra.s.s instruments, but in dangerous proximity to the trombone-players, cutting and slashing with their long tubes, behind him.

Some people are hard to impress, but they are few who do not feel a thrill of excitement on the pa.s.sing-by of a well-drilled regiment whose band is playing some lively march, to which, and the heavy beat of the drum, the tramp, tramp of six or eight hundred men is heard, like the pulsation of Old England's warlike heart. The thrill is felt by the bystanders and the men themselves; and the sight of the eager, interested faces the soldiers pa.s.s has given renewed spirit to many a man, hot, weary, and faint from some long march, and seemed to tighten muscle and nerve for the work yet to come.

That special morning d.i.c.k Smithson felt that, after all, his was a very bright and happy life. The past was dead; he had friends about him, and there was a delirious feeling of satisfaction to be there, at the head of the long line of men, whose glittering bayonets flashed and undulated in the sun as they pa.s.sed down the main street, at the end of which, where the people formed a crowd, hurrying along on either side, the bra.s.s band ended its strains, and after a preliminary flourish on the kettle-drums these and the fifes rattled and shrilled in their well-marked music.

Turn and turn, with an occasional change, when the kettle-drums had it all to themselves--_trr_--_trr_--_trr_--_trr_--a light, sharp tap, to mark the step as the towns were left behind, and the course led between the Kentish hedgerows and the bare fields, which seemed to be growing crops of poles, for the young hops themselves were only just showing their bronze-hued points above the ground.

Then, on and on, in open order, till, far away on the slope of a hill, where the white chalky road could be traced for miles, a cloud of dust could be seen. Soon after there was a flicker, as if the cloud were not dust, but smoke, and the flickering light was that of the fire within.

Then there was another flicker, and more and more, till it was plain enough that the sun was being reflected from burnished bra.s.s or steel, and the sinuous cloud was hovering over the regiment they had come to meet.

Half an hour later the two regiments had met, there had been a halt called, and at its end the march back to town was commenced, the men going over the hard road with a light, springy step.

It was all very simple and unadventurous, but everyone seemed to enjoy it--the men whose march had only been from Ratcham and those whose dusty clothes told of the many long miles they had tramped since early morn.

The crowd was greater than ever when the town was reached again, the 205th's band leading them and making the streets echo to the strains of "The British Grenadiers." There were loud bursts of cheering, too, now, and the traffic was stopped as the band was halted near the gates of the High Barracks to play the 310th in.

As everyone does not know, perhaps, so as to keep up a sustained military march, the bra.s.s band is divided into two parts, one of which will play through certain portions of the melody, which is then taken up by the second part, while the first regains breath, ready to take its turn again and to join in unison with the other in some _forte_ pa.s.sage.

Close up to the High Barrack gates, then, the bandsmen stood upon the pavement, while the companies of the 310th marched up the road. d.i.c.k Smithson was resting with the men of his side, while the others were concluding their part. The next minute d.i.c.k was in the act of raising his piccolo to his lips to shower out a burst of its bright bird-like music, while _tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp_, the men marched by, when his nerves suddenly seemed to be paralysed, his muscles refused to act, and he stood holding the tiny bright-keyed flute level with his chin, staring hard at a young officer, weary, covered with chalky dust, and with a set supercilious smile upon his lips, as he turned his eyes left to stare contemptuously at the young bandsman he pa.s.sed.

It was almost momentary, just taking as long as a man walking at a steady pace would occupy. Then he was by, leaving d.i.c.k staring after him as if in a cataleptic fit, his face full of terror and despair.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

HAUNTED.

For nearly a minute d.i.c.k did not stir, but stood staring, with eyes wide open, lips apart, and the piccolo held still on a level with his chin.

Then, as the figure of the officer was hidden by the marching men, the young musician uttered a low, hoa.r.s.e sound--the pent-up breath escaping from his lungs. The while the buildings opposite, the crowd of people in doorways and at windows, even the marching men steadily tramping by, seemed to undulate, rise, and then slowly glide round and round, till he gave a violent start; for a hand had grasped his arm, and he turned to gaze at the clarionet-player who was supporting him.

"What is it? A bit faint?"

"I--I don't know," faltered d.i.c.k.

"I do. That's it. You've been blowing a bit too hard. Don't play any more. We've just done."

A minute or two gave the lad time to try and recover himself.

"Yes, that's it," said the clarionet-player; "you got excited, and played too hard. I remember being once like that; I shivered just as you are shivering now. Doctor said it was only nerves."

"Only nerves!" said d.i.c.k, in a low tone, involuntarily repeating the man's words.

"Yes, that's it. Keep cool, and you'll soon come right. Feel faint now?"

"No, the giddiness has gone off."

"That's right."

The bandsman ceased speaking, for he had to take his part again, as the rear of the new regiment marched past with the mounted officers. Then followed an ambulance waggon, the water-tub, two or three baggage waggons, and half a dozen men who had fallen out on the march, all of whom d.i.c.k saw as if it were part of a dream, which lasted, in a confused way, as he and his companion joined their own regiment, took their place at the head, and returned to their own quarters.

"Getting all right, again?" said the clarionet-player, as they stood together in the barrack yard waiting to be dismissed.

"What is it? What's the matter?" asked Wilkins, sourly.

"Smithson sick, sir," was the reply.