But the surge into the town house was promptly succeeded by a rush for outdoors. The bellow of band music summoned them.
Fully appreciating what the dramatic stood for, Hiram Look had timed his arrival carefully. He wanted all the voters to witness it. His eight horses drew the band chariot, whose gilt and glass were resplendent, even through the mud-streakings. The showman drove, perched upon the high seat, his new silk hat flashing in the March sun. But the hat was dwarfed on that occasion.
Simon Peak sat beside him, and for the first time since Palermo had known him Simon Peak was really erect. It was his initial appearance as drum-major of the “Look Cornet Brass Band.” His trousers were white, his coat was crimson, with huge yellow shoulder knots, and an absolutely gigantic bearskin shako towered from his head. When the big waggon swung into the town-house yard the voters got a peep at the new uniforms of the bandmen and, inspired by the gorgeous spectacle and by the lively music, broke into a cheer.
Hiram’s grim features relaxed. He wheeled his horses skilfully and brought the big cart to a standstill opposite the crowded platform, twisted the reins about the brake bar, arose and removed his hat.
The ruling passion of the mob is the same in Palermo as it is in the metropolis.
“Speech!” yelled the crowd enthusiastically above the blare of the instruments.
“It ain’t no time, gents, for speeches now and here,” said Hiram Look in the first silence. “I only want to present to you, the voters of the town of Palermo, your new brass band, with the tallest drum-major in New England, if not in the whole world. It’s a band that no one can be ashamed of. It has taken enterprise and hard work to get it to goin’. It needs a boost from the voters of this town to keep it goin’. A word to the wise is sufficient. This ain’t no time for speeches, as I’ve just said, but I want to ask you, one and all, to show me and this band here to-day that you appreciate it when a man comes into the place and lets out a few reefs and tries to get the grand old town of Palermo sailin’ on a new tack.”
It was the younger men who cheered now, as they had cheered before. The older voters, from natural gravity and other reasons of a personal nature, were silent. Many of them went back into the town house grumbling about “hitchin’ circus fol-de-rols on to a bus’ness town meetin’.”
This faction, which was a very considerable one, glared when the band marched in behind its Gargantuan major and set the windows to rattling with one of its liveliest airs. In the close, low-ceiled room the uproar of the instruments and the clamour of the drums made hideous din of the music.
“I’ll be deefer’n a haddock if this keeps up,” growled Uncle Lysimachus Buck to Marriner Amazeen. “There don’t seem to be no law and order to nothin’ in this town nowadays. It strikes me it’s about time for P’lermo to set down on Hime Look, and set down so hard that he won’t get the creases out of him for awhile.”