He moved to the back of the house to place the ferrets out of the way, kicking the poor adder before him—it was a needed relief to his feelings. Returning, thus purged, he took the proffered horn—it was not a professional coach-horn or post-horn, but just the little instrument of a master of foxhounds curling into a circle above—and with but scant misgiving put it to his mouth, and blew. But the silence remained unbroken. He puffed on and on with solemn pertinacity. Not a sound issued. His cheeks swelled to bursting-point, and grew redder and redder with shame and vexation. But silence still reigned.
“You mustn’t put it inside your lips,” corrected Jinny. “Think you’re tum-tumming into a comb.”
He readjusted it sullenly, but the music within was still coy.
“Slacken your lip,” she advised. “Try to splutter br-r-r-rr into it.”
But whatever he spluttered into it, nothing came out.
“I never realized it was quite so difficult, even the lipping,” said Jinny simply. “Of course I didn’t expect you to do the double or treble tonguing at once.”
“What do you mean, tonguing?” he inquired morosely.
“Dividing the notes. Say ‘Tucker, Tucker, Tucker’ into it.”
“But it’s blowing, not saying,” said Will obstinately.
But secretly he modified his methods, and at last a ghostly plangency or a staccato squeak began to reward his apoplectic agonizings, and the still prisoned Nip, who had been yawning in utter boredom, now accompanied the music with a critical and lugubrious howling.