“I know Gounod’s work pretty well, sir,” said Dick, quietly.
“Oh, do you!” said the bandmaster, with a little jerky laugh, like that of a spiteful woman. “Now, then; what’s your name, sir?”
“Smithson,” said Dick, feeling as if he would like to kick the mean-spirited little cad.
“Oh, Smithson, eh?—son of the great Smith!”
He looked round, twinkling, for a laugh to follow what he meant for a joke; and the obsequious bandsmen uttered a sniggering kind of concreted grin, followed instantly by a loud-toned sonorous Phoomp! from the huge bell-mouth of the contra-bass.
“What do you mean by that, Banks?” cried the bandmaster, as soon as there was silence, for the men had burst into a loud and general roar.
“Beg pardon, sir; I was listening, sir,” said the offender. “It was only one of those deep notes I was doubtful about.”
“Then don’t you let it occur again, sir! It was an excuse for a marked show of disrespect, and I won’t have it! Here is the colonel complaining about the inefficiency of our band, and people are saying that the 310th is far better—which is a lie, a ridiculous lie—but I want to know how our band is to become efficient if there is not more discipline maintained?”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Silence, sir! Attend to what I say! I have long noted a want of attention among the men—a mutinous spirit—and I won’t allow it! While I’m bandmaster, I’ll be treated with proper respect; and, mark this, our band shall be efficient, and the members shall practise till they are!”