nd wondered how long it would be before he grew hardened
to his new life and able to forget the many little refinements and
luxuries to which he had been accustomed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

QUAVERING AMONG CROTCHETS.

"It is very horrid in some things," thought Dick Smithson as he would
think of his position at night in the comparative silence of his narrow
bed--comparative silence, for each of his brother bandsmen had a habit
of performing nocturnes on nasal instruments in a way not pleasing to a
weary, sleepless person--"very horrid."

For so many things jarred: the want of privacy, the common ways of his
companions, the roughness of the food, and the annoyances--petty
annoyances--he had to submit to from the little bandmaster.

But Dick did not repent. He was Dick now--Dick Smithson--even to
himself; and after the first few days, far from repenting the wild step
he had taken, he rejoiced in the calm rest which seemed to have come
over him. There was no one to accuse him of dishonourableness, to
remind him of the death of his cousin, no relations to meet who would
reproach him for all that he had done.

There was ease at night, so little time for thought. The military
routine kept him busy; and as he had embraced this life, he worked like
a slave to master his duties, and the time rapidly glided by.

There was always a smile for him whenever he met the big sergeant, while
the others he had encountered that first day were ready with a friendly
nod.

There was a band practice one afternoon, and Dick took his place with
the rest, listening to the men, who, whatever their instrument, began to
run through difficult bits regardless of their neighbours; but there was
only one person present whom this chaos of wild sounds affected--to wit,
the recruit, who listened with an intense longing to ram his fingers in
his ears, as one man began to cut and slash out notes from the trombone
in the key of G; while another practised difficult runs in E flat upon
the clarionet, another ran through a strain in F upon the cornet, and
the hautbois-performer, the bassoon, the contra-bass, and the
keyed-trumpet toiled away in major, minor, flat, sharp, or in whatever
key his music might be set.

The bewildering, maddening row--it deserved no other term--went on till
the bandmaster, looking mildly important in his spectacles, entered the
room, walked up to his stand--across which a baton had been laid--gave a
sharp tap, and there