As yet, Frank had no drum. Neither had he any scientific knowledge of the instrument. He was ambitious of entering upon his novel occupation, and was elated to learn, the next morning, that he was to begin his acquaintance with the noble art of drumming that very day.
"The sergeant is inquiring for you," said Abram Atwater, with his mild, pleasant smile, calling him out of the tent.
Frank, who was writing a letter to his mother, on his knapsack, jumped up with alacrity, hid his paper, and ran out to see what was wanted.
"This way, Manly," said the sergeant. "Here's the man that's to give you lessons. Go with him."
The teacher was a veteran drummer, with a twinkling gray eye, a long, thick, gray mustache, and a rather cynical way of showing his teeth under it. He had some drumsticks thrust into his pocket, but no drum.
"I suppose," thought Frank, "we shall find our drums in the woods;" into which his instructor straightway conducted him in order to be away from the diversions and noises of the camp.
Frank was disappointed. The veteran gave him his first exercise—on a board!
"I thought I was to learn on a drum," he ventured to suggest, looking up, not without awe, at the bushy mustache.
"You don't want a drum till you know how to drum," said the veteran.
"But I should think it would be better——"