Bindle, who had been a delighted spectator of the arrival of band after band, suggested to the leader of the eighth band in a roar that just penetrated to the drum of his ear, "'Adn't you better start 'ere, there ain't no room upstairs?"
The man gave a comprehensive look round, then by signs indicated to his men that they were to start then and there. They promptly broke out into "The Last Noel." Bindle ran from the shop, his fingers in his ears.
"Oh, my Gawd! they'll bring the 'ole bloomin' 'ouse down," he muttered. "I 'ope they don't play 'ymns in 'eaven—them drums!"
Mr. Hearty, who had been pushed into a corner behind an apple barrel, stood and gazed about him. There was a dazed look in his eyes, as of one who does not comprehend what is taking place. He looked as if at any moment he might become a jibbering lunatic.
A wild cheer from the crowd attracted his attention. He looked out. Pushing their way towards the shop was a number of vegetables: a carrot, a turnip, a cabbage, a tomato, a cucumber, a potato, a marrow, to name only a few. Each seemed to be on legs and was playing an instrument of some description.
Was he mad? Could that really be a melon playing the drum? Did bananas play cornets? Could cucumbers draw music from piccolos? Mr. Hearty blinked his eyes. Here indeed was a dream, a nightmare. He saw Bindle with an inspector and a constable turn the vegetables back, obviously denying them admission. He watched as one who has no personal interest in the affair. He saw the inspector enter with three constables, he saw the green and red band ejected, Ted and the whiskered man silenced, Charlie and the short genial man brought down protesting from upstairs.
He saw the inspector's busy pencil fly from side to side of his notebook, he saw Bindle grinning cheerfully as he exchanged remarks with the bandsmen, he saw what looked like a never-ending procession of bandsmen stream past him.
He saw everything, he believed nothing. Perhaps it was brain fever. He had worked very hard over his new shop. If he were to die, Smith could never carry on the three businesses. What would become of them? He further knew that his afternoon trade was ruined, that he would probably be summoned for something that he had not done, and tears came to his eyes.
In Mr. Hearty's soul was nothing of the patience and long-suffering of the martyr. Behind him, above him and in front of him he still seemed to hear the indescribable blare of brass. Outside were the cheers of the crowd and the vain endeavours of the police to grapple with the enormous problem that had been set them. What could it all mean?
In the kitchen behind the parlour sat Mrs. Hearty wheezing painfully. Opposite to her stood Mrs. Bindle, tight-lipped and grim.