"Was it?" said the schoolmaster. "Very good; beg pardon. Only thought you'd prefer somebody who could sing. Figgins can't."
Figgins again looked at Mole, as if he were about to fly at him.
But the cry of "A song, a song by Mr. Figgins!" drowned his remonstrances.
"Really do'no what to sing, ladies and gen'l'men," protested Figgins. "Stop a minute. I used to know 'My Harp and Flute.'"
"You mean 'My Heart and Lute,' I suppose?" said Jack.
"Yes, that's it. And I should remember the air, if I hadn't forgotten the words. Let's see. Stop a minute, head's rather queer. Try the water cure."
Whereupon Mr. Figgins staggered to the adjacent brook, and, kneeling down, fairly dipped his head into it.
After having wiped himself with a dinner napkin he rejoined the party, very much refreshed.
"Tell you what, friends, I'll give you a solo on the flute," he said. "Something lively; 'Dead March in Saul' with variations."
And without mere ado, he took up his favourite instrument, and prepared to astonish the company.