The mill owner received this information with little enthusiasm, but, learning that Mrs. Ryan was a victim of rheumatism, he advocated the use of a liniment prepared by his father and applied with remarkable results to both man and beast. Obadiah was hazy upon the mixture’s ingredients but was clear upon its curative qualities. Mrs. Ryan evincing marked interest, the manufacturer entertained her with the intimate details of miraculous recoveries.
Neither Virginia nor the Colonel being rheumatic, they failed to give Obadiah’s discourse the rapt interest of a true brother in pain. Their attention wavered, wandered and failed, and the band played a crashing air; but the rheumatic heeded not.
All hope of a general conversation having departed, the Colonel praised his band to Virginia. “Every man in that organization is over sixty years old,” he bragged. “They get as much pleasure out of playing as their audience does from their concert. It’s a great band.”
“They do play well,” the girl agreed. “I don’t wonder that you are proud of them. I love a brass band, myself. You do, too, Colonel Ryan. I can tell by your face, when they play.”
The Colonel grinned boyishly. “Yes,” he admitted, “I think a band is one of humanity’s boons. I can’t get close enough to one, when they are playing, to satisfy me. I have to have some sort of an excuse to do that, now-a-days–you’ll do fine–let’s go nearer.”
The medical lecture was disturbed, that the audience might nod understandingly to its husband, as they departed.
The Colonel chatted gaily. In the presence of a pretty woman he was a typical soldier. About them were the benches filled with the white headed veterans, as they entered the square. But a few years and these had been the fighting men of the country–its defence–playing parts modest or heroic on a hundred half forgotten battle fields. Now, they, too, bowed with age, rested in their years, and waited–waited calmly, as true soldiers should, with the taste of good tobacco upon their lips and the blare of martial music in their ears, the coming of the ever nearing shadow.
“Why have I never heard this band down town, Colonel Ryan? It is a shame when they play so beautifully. Do they charge for concerts?” asked Virginia, as an idea developed behind the blue eyes.
“People want young and handsome men to play for them if they pay for it,” laughed Colonel Ryan. “So my old codgers don’t get many chances of that sort.”
“Who has charge of the band?” Virginia’s manner meant business.