Meanwhile, the flautist was turning over his flute and glancing from it to the beautiful instrument Dick held.
“Now,” cried the leader, “run through that again, Jones—or, no, with the clarionet.”
He beat time and the two instruments sounded; but, at the end of the first bar, the clarionet-player took the reed from his lips.
“’Tain’t good enough, sir!” he said.
“Good enough!” cried Wilkins, angrily; “it’s disgraceful!”
“Yer never thought it disgraceful till this new chap come,” cried the discomfited flute-player. “Who’s to play proper on a thing like this? Look at his!”
“Hold your tongue, stoopid!” whispered the nearest man. “You’ll be getting yourself in a row.”
“Look at his flute!” cried Wilkins. “Why, he’d get more music out of a tin whistle than you would out of his. Here, you Smithson, see what you can do with that flute. Now, my lads, once again.”
Dick took Jones’s flute unwillingly for more than one reason. He felt that he was making an enemy of the man; but there was no time for hesitation, and, as they struck up, he played his part admirably upon the strange instrument, and then stood waiting.
“Give him his flute,” said Wilkins, shortly. “Don’t you go abusing our band instruments again, young man, or you’ll be finding yourself sent back to the ranks. Now, please, we’re losing time.”