Then there was a flourish of the leader’s stick in the air, and the brass instruments set off in the familiar march, every man blowing his loudest, and keeping very fair, well-marked time, to the end of the strain, to be followed by the piano movement, in which the flutes took the lead, with hautbois and clarionet, of course properly supported by the bass.
There was a peculiar jarring in Dick’s ears before the second bar was played; and, before they were half-way through eight, the conductor’s stick was tapping the music-stand fiercely.
“Stop! stop! stop!” he yelled. “My good fellow, this won’t do; you’re flat—horribly flat!”
Richard stood with his eyes fixed upon his music, expecting to see his companion alter the tuning-slide of his flute; but the man waited, with a supercilious smile upon his face, and the leader went on—
“Do you hear, you Smithson? That’s horribly flat. Now, then, blow A.”
Dick raised his instrument and blew a pure, clear note in perfect tune.
“Not that one; harder; your upper A.”
A note an octave higher rang out pure and clear.
“That’s better! Now begin again: the soft movement, please.”
Mr Wilkins waved his wand, and a fresh start was made, but it was more melancholy than the first. It sounded as if the women gathered in the marketplace to welcome the return of the German warriors had set up a howl of misery, which was ended by the crack of the conductor’s stick.