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.