‘Yes, sir—I mean’—— and Jack paused.
‘Call me major,’ said the trumpet-major.
‘Yes, major; I can play the piano pretty well.’
‘No pianos in the band,’ said the trumpet-major with a smile; ‘but if you can read well that’s something. You can’t beat time or rhythm into some of my trumpeters. Your lips look all right too; if you can use your tongue well I can make a good trumpeter of you.’
Jack had not the faintest notion of what the trumpet-major meant. The latter picked up a trumpet lying on a chair, and handing it to Jack said, ‘Now, put your lips together and try and sound that.’
Jack took the trumpet, drew a long breath, and blew with all his might, making no sound at all.
‘Squeeze your lips and make an action with your tongue as though you were trying to spit a bit of cotton-wool off it into the mouthpiece,’ said the trumpet-major.
Jack, with a smile, did as he was bidden, and at the third or fourth attempt succeeded in making a most unearthly sound.
‘Capital, capital!’ said the trumpet-major, rubbing his hands; ‘in three months we shall have you sounding on the square.’
‘I think he’ll do,’ said Barrymore gleefully.