he lacked the bird-like richness; he could scarce have extracted all

the honey out of 'Cherry Ripe'; he did not fear--he even ostentatiously

displayed and seemed to revel in he shrillness of the instrument; but

in fire, speed, precision, evenness, and fluency; in linked agility of

jimmy--a technical expression, by your leave, answering to warblers on

the bagpipe; and perhaps, above all, in that inspiring side-glance of

the eye, with which he followed the effect and (as by a human appeal)

eked out the insufficiency of his performance: in these, the fellow

stood without a rival. Harker listened: 'The girl I left behind me'

filled him with despair; 'The Soldier's Joy' carried him beyond jealousy

into generous enthusiasm.

'Turn about,' said the military gentleman, offering the pipe.

'O, not after you!' cried Harker; 'you're a professional.'

'No,' said his companion; 'an amatyure like yourself. That's one style

of play, yours is the other, and I like it best. But I began when I was

a boy, you see, before my taste was formed. When you're my age you'll

play that thing like a cornet-a-piston. Give us that air again; how does

it go?' and he affected to endeavour to recall 'The Ploughboy'.

A timid, insane hope sprang in the breast of Harker. Was it possible?

Was there something in his playing? It had, indeed, seemed to him at

times as if he got a kind of a richness out of it. Was he a genius?

Meantime the military gentleman stumbled over the air.

'No,' said the unhappy Harker, 'that's not quite it. It goes this

way--just to show you.'

And, taking the pipe between his lips, he sealed his doom. When he had

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