He was in the very act of surpassing himself, in his renowned “Cockney Serenade,” when he observed, out of the tail of his eye, a middle-aged man, who was forcing his way at all costs across the floor of the hall towards the bandstand.
When seven thousand people are packed on chairs on a single floor, it is not the quietest task in the world to penetrate through them. And the middle-aged man was not doing it quietly, in fact, he was making decidedly more noise than the “Cockney Serenade,” and attracting quite as much attention.
A number of ardently musical young men on the grand balcony leaned over the wrought-iron parapet and advised the middle-aged man to lie down and die, in a manner unmistakably ferocious. (It is extraordinary how ferocious a youth can be on mere lemonade.) But the middle-aged man continued his course, and he arrived at the bandstand, despite official and unofficial protests, simultaneously with the conclusion of the serenade.
Gales of applause swept about the court, and Carpentaria bowed, and bowed again—bowed innumerably, all the time regarding the middle-aged man with angry and suppressed curiosity. The middle-aged man had lifted up a hand and pulled the triangle-player by the belt of his magnificent uniform, and the triangle-player had bent down to speak to him.
“What is it? What is it?” asked Carpentaria, his nerves on edge.
“A person insists on speaking to you, sir,” replied the triangle-player.
“He cannot,” snapped Carpentaria.
“He says he shall,” said the triangle-player.
“I’ll——” Carpentaria began an anathema, and then stopped. He went to the rail of the bandstand and leaned over to the middle-aged man.
“At your age,” he said grimly, “you ought to know better than to interrupt my concerts in this way. Who are you? What do you want?”