“You ought to be in the Mandolin Club,” said Marchmont. He took up the mandolin and played over a few bars of the music that Lindsay had just performed—carelessly and with his thoughts evidently upon some other subject, yet with an ease and finish that called to Lindsay’s lips an exclamation of admiration.
“It’s the proper club to belong to, if you’re musical,” went on Marchmont; “has the nice fellows in it, you know—fellows like Poole and Planter and Reynolds. The common crowd go into the Glee Club. Laughlin is head bellower there.”
“Can he sing any?” asked Lindsay, smiling.
“About as you would expect from a big, rough bull like him. You know it takes something more than a deep voice and a big chest to make a singer.”
“I don’t suppose I could get into the Mandolin Club,” said Lindsay, longingly.
Marchmont considered. “It’s pretty hard to get a fellow in at this time of year. Of course, if you are a cracker-jack, the one and only great player, the Club would probably stretch a little and let you in.”
“But I’m not,” said Lindsay.
Marchmont considered further. “I’ll tell you what,” he said at length, “I have some influence in the Club, and I’ll try to persuade them that you ought to come in. What can you play best?”
Lindsay enumerated the half-dozen tunes of his repertoire which he was least likely to bungle.
“You take ‘Bluebell’ and practise it until you can do it asleep. Then I’ll give Poole and Reynolds the notion that you’re a mandolin artist, and bring them round to hear you. They’ll ask you what you can play, and when you name several things, I’ll call for ‘Bluebell.’ You can have an encore ready in case it’s demanded, and I’ll plan it so that the bell will ring, or something happen to break off the trial at that point. I think we can work it all right.”