"'Tis very dirty, to be sure; but washing it won't make it sound no better, I reckon."
"I rather think it will," I replied, and then I told him what I had in mind.
"'Tis a main risky trick, sir," he said dubiously. "If they should happen to want another bucketful of water we're lost men."
"We must risk something, Joe," I answered, "and fortune has so well befriended us hitherto that I can't think she will balk us now."
But I own that my anxieties increased as the day wore on, and my melancholy countenance was doubtless a good match with the faces of my comrades. When one of the other prisoners twitted me on my lugubrious mien, I had an inspiration.
"We are saving our cheerfulness for the concert tonight," I said. "'Twill be the best we have ever given, and we shall never give a better."
And for the rest of the day there was a great buzz of talk among the men about the announcement I had made, and a great deal of laughter at our mournful preparation for a cheerful entertainment.
Late in the afternoon, when water drawing had ended for the day, I went to one of the soldiers and asked if I might be allowed to wash our big drum.
"Why, 'twill spoil it," he cried. "You'll get no sound out of a wet skin."
"I shall only wash one side," I replied, "and it will give a thicker sound than the dry one, and so add to the variety of the piece we are going to play."