"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.