“What an abominable smell of gas!” said Wilkins, after a piece or two had been played.
“Yes, sir; I noticed it as we came up here first.”
“Humph! the pipes not properly joined, I suppose,” said Wilkins. “Play the next.”
Then a selection from Sullivan’s operas was played, but half-drowned by the noise from the tables.
“This gas is suffocating up here,” said the bandmaster, calling attention to it again.
“Yes, sir; I wonder they don’t grumble down below.”
“Humph! all up here, and along the upper part of the tent,” grumbled the bandmaster; and then his attention was taken off by the appearance of Jerry through the curtain of canvas opening upon the orchestra.
“Lieutenant Lacey, sir, says the band needn’t play no more during supper; and there’s refreshments all ready in the little tent outside.”
“Oh, thanks!” cried Wilkins. “Bring your instruments and music, and then we needn’t come up here again before we go to the ball-room. Halloa! you smell it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jerry, who had been sniffing loudly. “Someone’s been turning on the gas here, and no mistake! Temp’ry pipes, I suppose.”