“Oh, no one will come here now,” was the reply. “I get so little practice. I shall blow gently.” Directly afterwards he began to run up and down, playing through some exercise with which he was familiar extremely softly; and then by way of a change he began what is technically known as “double-tonguing.”
This was too much for Oliver West. He had stood rubbing first one rifle and then the other with a slightly-oiled rag to get rid of specks of rust or dust, every now and then stealing a glance at the absurdly screwed-up face, feeling the while that a good hearty laugh would do him good, but determined to maintain his composure so as not to hurt the performer’s feelings. But the double-tonguing was too much.
Tootle-too, tootle-too, tootle, tootle-too went the performer, running up the gamut till he reached the octave and was about to run down again, but he stopped short, lowered his instrument, and turned from a warm pink to a deep purply crimson, for West suddenly burst out into a half-hysterical roar of laughter, one which he vainly strove to check.
“I—I—I—I beg your pardon,” he cried at last.
“Thank you,” snorted out Anson; “but I don’t see anything to laugh at.”
“I couldn’t help it, Anson. You did look so—so comic. Such a face!”
“Did I?” cried the musician angrily. “Such a face, indeed! You should see your own. Your grin looked idiotic: half-way between a bushman and a baboon.”
“Thank you,” said West, calming down at once, and feeling nettled in turn.
“Oh, you’re quite welcome,” said Anson sarcastically. “I have heard about casting pearls before swine; but I never saw the truth of the saying before.”
“Thank you again,” said West, frowning. “But if I were you I would not waste any more of my pearls in such company.”