“Oh, risk it,” said Mrs. Anderson, laughing. “Consider the claims of a woman in distress—you can’t leave me to face a Cunjee audience alone. Your clothes don’t matter a bit—in fact, Cunjee will probably consider you clad as the lilies of the field.” So Jim, against his better judgment, stayed.
Dinner at the Andersons’ was a cheerful occasion, to which variety was lent by the Anderson baby, who insisted on sitting on Norah’s knee, and drummed happily on the cloth with her dessert-spoon, while Norah ate on the catch-as-catch-can principle. Then, the baby being with difficulty severed from the object of his adoration, they hurried to the Mechanics’ Institute, outside which the local brass band was performing prodigies of harmony, somewhat impeded by the fact that the euphonium was three tones flat.
Jim did not enjoy the concert. A shade of anxiety hung over his mind, with the conviction that it was quite possible that their absence was causing anxiety at the station. Thus the antics of the Cunjee comedian who, in private life, kept a somewhat disreputable bicycle-repairing establishment, fell flat; albeit the comedian aforesaid had bedecked himself in spurious red whiskers and a kilt compounded of a red table cloth, with a whitewash brush as sporran, and sang Scotch ditties with a violent Australian twang—a combination truly awe inspiring. They suffered from the familiar soprano, who trilled strange trills in a key very much too high, and from the confident young baritone, who warbled a ditty of the type more generally reserved for tenors, and took an encore on the echo of the first faint clap. The band master played a long solo upon the cornet, than which there is no more lonely instrument when unsupported; and on the heels of its wailing came a young lady who recited harrowing particulars of the death of “my chee-ild,” whom she indicated as lying in its coffin immediately before her. She knelt by it, and apostrophized the deceased in moving terms. She wrung her hands over it; in fact, she pointed it out so definitely that to Norah, whose imagination was unfortunately vivid, it assumed actual reality, and she with difficulty restrained a cry when, in the last verse, the elocutionist forgot her previous actions, and in the anguish of her mood, stepped right into the coffin! At this point Norah decided definitely that she did not like recitations. It pained her greatly to see the young lady smirk and stroll off the stage, oblivious of her heart-rending actions.
Then the Shire President came forward and thanked everybody in impartial terms, and the concert was over. Jim hurried his party out of the hall, and as soon as possible they had said good-night to Mrs. Anderson, resisting her offers of supper; and were in the saddle, cantering along the homeward track.
Five miles out of Cunjee a shadow loomed up out of the gloom, and Garryowen gave a sudden whinney. Mr. Linton’s voice followed it.
“Is that you, Jim?”
Under his breath Jim uttered a low whistle.
“Great Scott! It’s Dad!” he said. He raised his voice. “Right-oh, Dad! Is anything wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong at home,” said David Linton, wheeling Monarch beside Garryowen. “What has kept you?”
“Went to a concert,” said Jim, briefly, feeling suddenly very small and young.