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Updated: May 29, 2025
There was Tom with his ill-fastened shoelaces trailing, his smart bandsman's coat buttoned awry over a pair of trousers which were neither his Sunday best, nor the white-piped blue ones which formed part of his uniform as musician these were a shabby, shiny, pair of worn broad-cloth usually kept for wet Sundays and Saturday expeditions to town; a suit, in fact, which had long been considered by no means presentable.
He could hear the armed life almost within reach of him, could hear the slings tighten across the bandsman's chest as he heaved the big drum from the ground. 'Sticks crossed above his head, whispered Torpenhow. 'I know. I know! Who should know if I don't? H'sh! The drum-sticks fell with a boom, and the men swung forward to the crash of the band.
A couple of hours later the young bandsman's disappearance was the talk of the barracks, and numerous were the reasons assigned for it; while the customary notification was given, to the annoyance of Dick's friends and the gratification of his enemies, these consisting of the men who wished to be on good terms with the bandmaster.
He chuckled to himself, as Tom was hauled back, sheepish and sulky, and pushed into the house by the womankind; presently emerging in full bandsman's dress, tied shoe-laces in every way as spick and span as father or mother could desire.
She started; the cheese rolled from her arms to the ground, and broke into pieces like a pudding. She looked fearfully round, her face burning like sunset, and, seeing nobody, stooped to pick up the flaccid lumps. Jim, with a pale face, departed as invisibly as he had come. He had proved the bandsman's tale to be true. On his way back he formed a resolution.
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