There was plenty to do previously, for Wilkins insisted upon several band practices of the dance-music, greatly to the disgust of the better musicians, who were ready to play the pieces at sight.
Then the evening came. The mess-man had done his best; a tent-maker had come down from town to build a canvas hall, draped red and white; and a local man had fitted the marquee with gas and floor complete for a supper-room. Tempting refreshments were provided, and a nurseryman had contrived a natural garden here and there, not forgetting to make a cosy nest for the band. The officers of the two regiments meant to do the thing well, cost what it might, and the invitations had been looked upon as prizes for miles round.
There was an hour to wait before the first guests were likely to arrive, and Dick sat in the band-room low-spirited and dreamy; for the festivity seemed a trouble now, and he would have given anything to have been able to keep away.
Naturally, his principal thought was his cousin, but he more than once asked himself why he should trouble about Mark; for, possibly, he might not come, and, even if he did, they were not in the least likely to come face to face.
Still, the idea would return; and he was at his moodiest when the door opened and a familiar voice said:
“Ah! there you are.”
“Jerry!”
“Jerry it is, Dick Smithson. I say, do go and have a look at him.”
“At him?”
“Yes, the lieutenant; I’ve made a picture of him. New uniform fresh from the tailor’s; I’ve shampooed him and brushed him, and scented him till he smells like a bed of flowers, and he’s all in a nervous flutter as he sits there, afraid to smoke or do anything before the company come. Can’t you go up and have a look?”