Give us a seat here beside you.' The next moment the military gentleman was perched on the cart, pipe in hand.

He gave the instrument a knowing rattle on the shaft, mouthed it, appeared to commune for a moment with the muse, and dashed into 'The girl I left behind me'.

He was a great, rather than a fine, performer; 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.