Ching stopped, nursed the instrument upon his knee as if it were a baby, pulled out the offending peg as if it were a tooth, moistened the hole, replaced the peg, and began again—screw, screw, screw.
Peng—peng—ping—pang—pong—pung—pungh—pungh—poonh—poingh—pank—peng—peng, peng, pang—pang—pang,—peng.
Just a quarter of a tone out still, and he tried again diligently, while my eyes half closed, and the Tanner and Blacksmith both nodded in the heat.
Ping—peng—peng—pung—pang—pang—paang—paang—paeng—paeng.
Right at last; and Ching threw himself back so that his mouth would open to the widest extent, struck a chord on the three strings, and burst forth with celestial accompaniment into what was in all probability a passionate serenade, full of allusions to nightingales, moonbeams, dew-wet roses, lattice-windows, and beautiful moon-faced maidens, but which sounded to me like—
“Ti ope I ow wow,
Ti ope I ow yow,
Ti ope I ow tow,
Ti ope I ligh.”
The words, I say, sounded like that: the music it would be impossible to give, for the whole blended together into so lamentable a howl, that both Barkins and Smith started up into wakefulness from a deep sleep, and the former looked wildly round, as confused and wondering he exclaimed—
“What’s matter?”
As for Smith, he seemed to be still half-asleep, and he sat up, staring blankly at the performer, who kept on howling—I can call it nothing else—in the most doleful of minor keys.
“I say,” whispered Barkins, “did you set him to do that?”