“Indeed, sir?” said the bandmaster, sarcastically. “Not such an attractive name that I would care to allude to it.”
“Oh, you meant about the music of Faust, sir?” said Dick, pronouncing the name of the opera as a German would—something like Fowst.
“The music of what?” said the bandmaster, screwing up his face as if the sound were unpleasant to his ears.
“Gounod’s opera, sir, I said. I know it pretty well.”
“Dear me! you seem to know everything ‘pretty well;’ perhaps you know how to conduct ‘pretty well,’ and would like to take my stick and lead?”
Dick looked down at the music, but made no reply, though the bandmaster waited for a few moments.
“Then I suppose I may go on. Of course, the colonel has a right to interfere, though I was not aware that he was a musician; and I think I have had some little experience in musical matters, and if I had proper material I could produce as good results as any man in the service; but, hampered as I am by incompetents, and interfered with in matters of which I ought to be the best judge, I don’t know what can be expected, I’m sure.—The March from Forst.”
There was a sharp tapping of the baton, and Dick drew back to go and sit down, when the spectacles glistened in his direction again.
“Keep your place, sir,” shouted the little tyrant. “You can, as you are here, try the flute part. Be careful!”
Dick felt a singing in his ears, and his fellow-flautist scowled.