"That was what that measly beast there did, Sir, and 'ed a done it, Sir, if we 'adn't prevented 'im. We didn't 'it 'im much, Sir. 'E 'adn't no manner o' right to interfere with us, Sir. I don't mind bein' flogged by the Drum Major, Sir, nor yet reported by any corp'ral, but I'm—but I don't think it's fair, Sir, for a civilian to come an' talk over a man in the Army."
A second shout of laughter shook the Orderly-room, but the Colonel was grave.
"What sort of characters have these boys?" he asked of the Regimental Sergeant-Major.
"Accordin' to the Bandmaster, Sir," returned that revered official—the only soul in the regiment whom the boys feared—"they do everything but lie, Sir."
"Is it like we'd go for that man for fun, Sir?" said Lew, pointing to the battered plaintiff.
"Oh, admonished—admonished!" said the Colonel testily, and when the boys had gone he read the Bazar-Sergeant's son a lecture on the sin of unprofitable meddling, and gave orders that the Bandmaster should keep the Drums in better discipline.
"If either of you come to practice again with so much as a scratch on your two ugly little faces," thundered the Bandmaster, "I'll tell the Drum Major to take the skin off your backs. Understand that, you young devils."
Then he repented of his speech for just the length of time that Lew, looking like a seraph in red worsted embellishments, took the place of one of the trumpets in hospital—and—rendered the echo of a battle-piece. Lew certainly was a musician, and had often in his more exalted moments expressed a yearning to master every instrument of the Band.
"There's nothing to prevent your becoming a Bandmaster, Lew," said the Bandmaster, who had composed waltzes of his own, and worked day and night in the interests of the Band.
"What did he say?" demanded Jakin after practice.
"Said I might be a bloomin' Bandmaster, an' be askt to 'ave a glass o' sherry-wine o' Mess-nights."
