A Dash from Diamond City | Page 2

revealed an arms-rack with some twenty of the
newest-pattern rifles standing ready for use, and bayonets and
bandoliers to match each breech-loading piece.
A peculiarly innocent baby-like look came over his companion's face as
he opened his desk and took out a little flat oblong mahogany case and
said softly:
"Going to play at soldiers again? Only to think of Oliver West, Esquire,
learning to shoulder arms and right-about face when a drill-sergeant
barks at him."
"Look here, Anson," cried the young fellow warmly; "is that meant for
a sneer?"
"Me sneer?" protested the plump-looking cherubic clerk. "Oh dear, no!
I never indulge in sneers, and I never quarrel, and I never fight."
"Humph!" ejaculated the rifle-bearer.
"I only think it's all braggadocio nonsense for a lot of fellows to go
wasting time drilling and volunteering when they might acquire such
an accomplishment as this."
As the speaker addressed his warlike companion he tapped the lid of
his case, opened it, and revealed three joints of a flute lying snugly in
purple-velvet fittings, and, taking them out, he proceeded to lick the
ends all round in a tomcat sort of way, and screwed them together,
evidently with a great deal of satisfaction to himself, for he smiled
softly.

"Bah! It's a deal more creditable to be prepared to defend the place
against the Boers. Better join us, Anson."
"Me? No, thank you, unless you start a band and make me
bandmaster."
"We shall want no music," said West, laughing. "The Boers will give us
plenty of that with their guns."
"Nonsense! It's all fudge," said the flautist, smiling. "There'll be no
fighting, and even if there were I'm not going to shoulder a rifle. 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 crushing,
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,