“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lad, frankly, “but I stopped to hear the music; the air was very familiar, and I had my instrument in my pocket, and—well, sir, that’s all.”
“Oh!” said the old officer, scanning him sharply; “then you are not a street musician?”
“I, sir? Oh, no,” cried Richard—“that is, I don’t know; I suppose I shall be.”
“Humph! Well, you played that piece from the Trovatore capitally. The gentlemen here would like to hear something else—er—I should, too. Know any other airs?”
“A few, sir.”
“Mind playing?”
“Not to so appreciative an audience,” came to the lad’s lips; but he only said, “Oh, no, sir.”
“Go on, then. Here, Johnson, give the musician a glass of wine. By the way, Lacey, you were going to tell us a story about something.”
The big, good-looking officer smiled, shook his head, and wrinkled up his forehead in a perplexed way as he looked up at the ceiling.
“The flute-player blew it all out of his head, sir,” said a rather fierce-looking man who took the foot of the table, and there was another laugh.