Part 1 (2/2)

I should be afraid to let it off.”

”You?” cried West, staring into the smooth, plump face. ”Why, you once told me you were a first-rate shot.”

”Did I? Well, it was only my fun,” said the clerk, placing his flute to his lips and beginning to run dumb scales up and down, skilfully enough as to the fingering, but he did not produce a sound.

”I say, don't you begin to blow!” cried West, looking rather contemptuously at the musician and forcing himself to restrain a laugh at the grotesque round face with the eyes screwed-up into narrow slits.

”Oh, no one will come here now,” was the reply. ”I get so little practice. I shall blow gently.” Directly afterwards he began to run up and down, playing through some exercise with which he was familiar extremely softly; and then by way of a change he began what is technically known as ”double-tonguing.”

This was too much for Oliver West. He had stood rubbing first one rifle and then the other with a slightly-oiled rag to get rid of specks of rust or dust, every now and then stealing a glance at the absurdly screwed-up face, feeling the while that a good hearty laugh would do him good, but determined to maintain his composure so as not to hurt the performer's feelings. But the double-tonguing was too much.

_Tootle-too, tootle-too, tootle, tootle-too_ went the performer, running up the gamut till he reached the octave and was about to run down again, but he stopped short, lowered his instrument, and turned from a warm pink to a deep purply crimson, for West suddenly burst out into a half-hysterical roar of laughter, one which he vainly strove to check.

”I--I--I--I beg your pardon,” he cried at last.

”Thank you,” snorted out Anson; ”but I don't see anything to laugh at.”

”I couldn't help it, Anson. You did look so--so comic. Such a face!”

”Did I?” cried the musician angrily. ”Such a face, indeed! You should see your own. Your grin looked idiotic: half-way between a bushman and a baboon.”

”Thank you,” said West, calming down at once, and feeling nettled in turn.

”Oh, you're quite welcome,” said Anson sarcastically. ”I have heard about casting pearls before swine; but I never saw the truth of the saying before.”

”Thank you again,” said West, frowning. ”But if I were you I would not waste any more of my pearls in such company.”

”I do not mean to,” said Anson, with his eyes glittering.

He got no farther, though he was prepared to say something crus.h.i.+ng, for the door was flung open and their fellow-clerk came back quickly.

”Hullo!” he cried, ”flute and hautboy. I say, Sim, put that thing away and don't bring it here, or I shall have an accident with it some day.

You ought to have stopped him, Noll. But come out, both of you.

There's some fun in the compound. They're going to thoroughly search half-a-dozen Kaffirs, and I thought you'd like to see.”

”Been stealing diamonds?” cried Anson excitedly.

”Suspected,” replied Ingleborough.

”I'll come too,” said Anson, and he began to rapidly unscrew his flute, but so hurriedly that in place of separating the top joint from the next he pulled it open at the tuning-slide, changed colour, and swung himself round so as to turn his back to his companions, keeping in that position till his instrument was properly separated and replaced in its case, whose lid he closed, and then turned the key.

”I'm ready,” he cried, facing round and b.u.t.toning his jacket over the little mahogany case.

”Do you take that shepherd's pipe to bed with you?” said Ingleborough scornfully.

”Generally,” replied the fat-looking clerk innocently. ”You see, it's so nice when one wakes early, and I have learned to blow so softly now that I can often get an hour's practice before I have my morning's bath.”

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