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She would like, I believe, something better than being a battlefield. There is music again! Yesterday a man died, crying for the band to hush. He said it drowned something he needed to hear." "Yes, yes," replied her friend, nodding his head. "That is perfectly true. That is very true, indeed! That band's coming from the station. They're looking for a regiment from Richmond. That's a good band!
The band's getting in line. Hurry up! Hurry up!" Then Billy spoke. His voice came, shaky, as in the old, gun-shy days; but quietly as he spoke, the words seemed to reach across the whole station platform. "Boys! Oh, boys! There's poor Jack Morrison's wife and the little lad he sent his love to!" The crowd hushed its gay clamor and every head turned towards the woman in black and the chubby child.
Fyles smiled. "Thanks. I was expecting it." Then he turned away, and, followed by McBain, passed out of the building. Once outside, however, it was quite another matter. The officer tore open the message and glanced at its contents. Then he passed it on to McBain with a brief comment. "They're wise," he said. "Guess the band's going to start playing right away." McBain read the message.
"Hello, Tennessee," grinned that young man. "Come to be a pall-bearer?" "Hello, Texas! Can't say, I'm sure. Just dropped in to see what's doing." Steve's admiring gaze approved him a man from the ground up. But the ranger only laughed and said: "The band's going to play a right lively tune, looks like." The man from the Panhandle had his revolvers out already.
I haven't time to go into the matter. I want to go over and look at Mary Ellen." He slipped away as he spoke, leaving Gallagher standing, sulky and very suspicious, by himself. Doyle, who had no reason to think that anything had gone wrong, greeted him heartily. Gallagher replied angrily. "Do you know what tune it is that the band's going to play?" he said. "You and your old tune!" said Doyle.
They puts me in mind of when the band's playin' as the hosses go to the post fur the Kentucky Derby. "'Blister, says Mr. Van, 'show the horses the view over the hill; they'll enjoy it. "I'm on my way in a hurry, but hears her say: "'Oh, Billy, not here! "They don't come along fur half an hour. When they does, Mr. Van says to me: "'Lead Rainbow to the Livingston stables, Blister.
I shore allows that when Jule an' old Hickey observes my graceful agility an' then hears me warble "Roll Jurdan, Roll," I'll make 'em hang their heads. "'The tumblin' is about to begin; the band's playin', an' all us athletes is ranged Injun file along a plank down which we're to run. I'm the last chicken on the roost.
The silence that followed the band's final chord seemed, as Oliver Wendell Holmes says in one of his little poems, to have come like a poultice to heal the wounds of sound, and the great beasts settled down. Then there was a bugle-call, and the evolutions began in regular review style, with plenty of fancy additions, such as had been planned to impress the great gathering of the Malay people.
The band played a waltz which involved a gift of prominence to the bass horn, and one of the young men on the sidewalk said that the music reminded him of the new engines on the hill pumping water into the reservoir. A similarity of this kind was not inconceivable, but the young man did not say it because he disliked the band's playing.
Few feminine faces appeared on the Cobber stand. The Cobber colors, brown and gray, floated here and there on the breeze in the form of small banners. Gridley's stand was brilliant with the crimson and gold banners of Gridley H.S. These bright-hued bits of bunting waved deliriously as the band's strains floated forth.
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