"Well," say I, "how do you feel?"
"Never mind," says the astute Puffin; "I bide my time! Only (mark my words), Gasper won't score as heavily as he expects." With these dark words he vanishes.
The next moment I am face to face with Gasper.
"How do you feel?" I ask of him.
"Don't worry about me," replies Gasper. "I'm not afraid that Puffin will cover himself with glory, after all." And Gasper retires.
We had a wonderful "house" that night. The "competition" had been noised abroad, and the wily doctor's surmises were fulfilled. There was a Puffin and a Gasper faction ready to do battle for its respective champion when the clarion of defiance rang out from the platform.
I pass the overture, a solo on the clarionet, which reduced the pug-nose of Lipsey to a severe aquiline during its performance; a flute and violin duo, and etc. The time had come for "The Wind from the Sea" (George Gasper Esq.). The favourite performer was hailed with shouts of delight. The Puffin faction smiled silently.
The opening bars of the symphony were played by the pianist.
Gasper advanced with a half-restrained smile of self-satisfaction, and after some singular contortions of his lips began to play the scena for the cornet.
But no sound followed his laboured effort! Again, and again, red in the face, and furious, he essayed to produce a note from his silver instrument. It was dumb!