“I ust to play a fife.”
“I can blow a horn—I got paid fer it on the East Side, when any patent medicine quack wanted to get a crowd around to buy his stuff,” admitted one of the big Firemen.
And a score or so of boys all cried that they wanted to play something in the band. Uncle Ben knew music was a great thing in a community even if it had a discordant sound at first; it would be helpful and elevating for them even to try and play.
“I’m going to act on Bill’s suggestion at once! I will wire Mr. Richards to pick out the instruments we may need to begin a Camp Band. He will know what to buy,” declared Uncle Ben.
“Say, Mister Ta’mage, tell him not to waste his good money buyin’ ’em new—he kin git all kinds and all sizes of music instruments at a pawn-shop along the Bowery. Me brudder got a fine bass horn at one, fer a quarter of what it was wuth!” bawled a big East Side German boy.
“Yah! Hear Dutchy talk! It takes your big brudder what was practicin’ music fer yer Kaiser, to grab a bargain!” jeered Young Italy.
“He didn’t not! My brudder is blowin’ his horn fer a enlist camp on Long Island—so now! An’ my fadder and mudder are natural Americaners, I want to tell you yet!” retorted Bill.
“Here, here, boys! No war arguments at Happy Hills! It is absolutely forbidden! Bill is as good a citizen as I am and should anyone question my veracity on the subject, he can leave camp now! We don’t want to give our Police Force any unnecessary trouble and I know what such a discussion will lead up to.”
“Mr. Ta’mage, I gotta cymbals to my house in New York. My uncle left them wid us when he was drafted,” said another boy from the ranks.
“You write at once, Jimmy, and ask your mother to send them on to us,—collect. You can play the cymbals in the band,” declared Uncle Ben.