“Yes, sir,” came in rather an offended tone, which the colonel noticed.
“He had better go with the bandsmen, perhaps; he would be more comfortable.—Look here, sir, I shall make inquiries about you. Come to enlist, eh? Wouldn’t care to join our band, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir!” cried Dick, eagerly.
“Beg pardon, sir, we are quite full,” said the bandmaster, importantly.
“Of what, Mr Wilkins?” said the colonel, sternly. “Incompetents? I am not much of a judge, sir, but I know enough music to be able to say that ours is one of the worst bands in the army. I shall have inquiries made about this Richard or Dick Smithson, and, if the results are favourable, he had better stay. See that he is looked after for the night!”
The colonel sauntered off; followed by the doctor, and Dick stood gazing after him, wondering whether they would find out who he was and whence he came, when the bandmaster said in an ill-used tone of voice—
“Here, you had better come with me!” and he led the way to the portion of the barracks which formed the bandsmen’s quarters, where Dick passed the night.
“Eh? No! Why, it is! Well, I’m blessed!”
The fat sergeant’s ejaculations when, one morning, Dick Smithson, the new recruit to the band, hurried up to take his place with the awkward squad and learn a sufficiency of the drill to carry himself correctly and march with the men.
“How in the world did you manage it, my lad? Here, I know: you were the chap who played in the mess. Well, how are you? There, fall in!” cried the sergeant, suddenly altering his tone and manner. “We’ll have a talk by-and-by.”