We mustered a small orchestra, consisting of two flutes, two cornets, two violins, one viola, one violoncello, a drum, a clarionet, and the triangle above mentioned.
The performances of this "limited band" were more remarkable for their force than their precision; and a want of "tone" and completeness was the result of an endeavour on the part of each performer to make the instrument he played specially conspicuous. It didn't matter so much with the flutes, violins, and clarionet; but the two cornets were a serious nuisance.
Gasper and Puffin (both "first" cornets, of course!) were deadly rivals, implacable foes. Each aspired to be the ruler of the club, each regarded himself as the performer par excellence. The flutes were not friendly, and the violoncello was crabbed and unpleasant, but those cornets were insufferable.
We all felt that a crisis was at hand, and we all devoutly wished it; for while Puffin and Gasper asserted themselves, we others were, to a defined extent, hiding our light under a bushel.
The catastrophe was foreshadowed by a stormy meeting convened to arrange the programme of our fourth and last annual concert.
"Of course," premised the First Violin, who was also Secretary and Librarian, "we have all a solo!"
There was no doubt of that, except as regarded the "doubles," viz., the two flutes and the two cornets. The first couple had so far coalesced as to submit to the prowess being displayed in a duet, which was destined to be less flute than elaborate flatulence.
"Let's begin at the beginning," said Gasper. "No. 1: that's an overture for tutti; say, 'The Caliph of Bagdad.'"
"I don't mind," responded the Secretary. "It's easy enough, and there's lots of show for the violins."
"The question now arises," jerked in Puffin, "who is to be the first soloist? I won't."