“You’re here, in any case,” said Digby. “The men are tremendously pleased, sir,” he added, “that you’re going to sing. They appreciate it.”
“They won’t appreciate it nearly so much when they hear me,” said the Major. “I haven’t sung a part for, I suppose, twenty years.”
Christmas carols have been sung, and we may suppose practised beforehand, in odd places, amid curious surroundings. But it is doubtful whether even the records of missionaries in heathen lands tell of a choir practice so unconventional as that held on Christmas Eve in the kitchen of Miss Willmot’s canteen.
The rain beat a tattoo on the corrugated iron roof. It dripped into a dozen pools on the soaking floor, it fell in drops which hissed on to the top of the stove. There was no musical instrument of any kind. The tea-tray was cleared away and laid in a corner. The Major, white-haired, lean-faced, smiling, sat on the packing-case in the middle of the room. Miss Willmot sat on her biscuit-tin near the stove. Miss Nelly perched, with dangling feet, on a corner of the sink in which cups and dishes were washed. Digby, choir-master and conductor, stood in front of the stove.
“Now then,” he said, “we’ll begin with ‘Nowell.’ Major, here’s your note—La-a-a”—he boomed out a low note. “Got it?”
“La-a-a,” growled the Major.
“Miss Willmot, alto,” said Digby, “la-a-a. That’s right. Miss Davis, a third higher, la-a-a. My tenor is F. Here’s the chord. La, la, la, la. Now, one, two, three. ‘The first Nowell the angels did say——‘”
The rain hammered on the roof. The Major plodded conscientiously at his bass. Miss Nelly sang a shrill treble. Digby gave the high tenor notes in shameless shouts. “Good King Wenceslas” followed, and “God rest you merry, gentlemen.” Then the Major declared that he could sing no more.
“I wish you’d get another bass, padre,” he said. “I’m not trying to back out, but I’m no good by myself. If I’d somebody to help me, a second bass——”
“There’s nobody,” said Digby. “I’ve scoured the whole camp looking for a man.”