“Well, do you know, I’m beginning to like that idea, Smithson. But I’m not very clever over music. Big drum seems more in my way.”
“Oh, no. You could soon get on with a bass instrument. Have you ever learnt anything?”
“Tin whistle, when I was a boy.”
“Oh, that would not help you much. You say you’ll try, and I’ll help you.”
“Try,” cried the sergeant. “I’d try bugling;” and he soon after left the room with the understanding that, Mr Wilkins being willing, he was to begin his practice the very next day.
Chapter Twenty Two.
Dick Smithson sees a Ghost.
A bright, brisk, early spring morning, with bugles sounding, the tramp of feet, an occasional hoarse shout, and, out in the sunshine, gleams of light flashing in all directions from well-burnished brass ornament or rifle-stock; while the generally dismal-looking barrack yard was gay as a garden-bed newly planted with scarlet geraniums in full bloom.