“Humph!” ejaculated the rifle-bearer.
“I only think it’s all braggadocio nonsense for a lot of fellows to go wasting time drilling and volunteering when they might acquire such an accomplishment as this.”
As the speaker addressed his warlike companion he tapped the lid of his case, opened it, and revealed three joints of a flute lying snugly in purple-velvet fittings, and, taking them out, he proceeded to lick the ends all round in a tomcat sort of way, and screwed them together, evidently with a great deal of satisfaction to himself, for he smiled softly.
“Bah! It’s a deal more creditable to be prepared to defend the place against the Boers. Better join us, Anson.”
“Me? No, thank you, unless you start a band and make me bandmaster.”
“We shall want no music,” said West, laughing. “The Boers will give us plenty of that with their guns.”
“Nonsense! It’s all fudge,” said the flautist, smiling. “There’ll be no fighting, and even if there were I’m not going to shoulder a rifle. I should be afraid to let it off.”
“You?” cried West, staring into the smooth, plump face. “Why, you once told me you were a first-rate shot.”
“Did I? Well, it was only my fun,” said the clerk, placing his flute to his lips and beginning to run dumb scales up and down, skilfully enough as to the fingering, but he did not produce a sound.
“I say, don’t you begin to blow!” cried West, looking rather contemptuously at the musician and forcing himself to restrain a laugh at the grotesque round face with the eyes screwed-up into narrow slits.