This is going awfully slow," said Major Bayne to Barry. "I wish
something could be done."

"The boys are tired out," answered Barry, himself weary and sick of the
performance and longing more than anything else for solitude and his
cot.

The Commanding Officer came over and sat beside them. He was obviously
worried and uneasy.

"I don't like this," he said to the major. "Coleman is doing his best,
and is doing mighty well, but there is no heart in the boys, and it
isn't entirely due to physical weakness. I wish we could start something
that would wake them up before they leave. They would sleep much
better."

"The Pilot here can do it," said Major Bayne in an undertone, "but I
rather hate to ask him for he is pretty much all in."

They sat a little while longer listening to the men's half hearted
drawling of "The Tulip and the Rose."

"This won't do," said the O. C. abruptly. "Get Dunbar over here."

"Dunbar," said the O. C. when Barry had come to him. "This thing is as
dull as ditchwater. I want to get the boys started up a bit. They are
hopelessly dull. Look at their eyes. Do you know what they are seeing?"

"Yes, sir," said Barry, "they are seeing what they have been looking at
for the last thirteen days."

"You are right, Dunbar, and that's what I want them to forget. Now I
know you don't feel very fit, and I hate to ask you, but I believe you
can do something for the men with that violin of yours. What do you
say?"

"I have already sent a man for it," said Major Bayne. "I knew he'd do
it, and his violin lies there under the piano."

Without announcement or preface Barry walked straight to the stage where
Coleman, having miserably failed to strike fire with "The Tulip and the
Rose," was grinding out, with great diligence and conscientious energy,
"Irish Eyes." Barry picked up his violin from the floor, mounted the
stage, laid his violin on the piano, then he took his place behind the
pianist and, bending over him, reached down, caught him under the legs
and while still in full tide of his performance, lifted him squarely off
the stool and deposited him upon a chair at one side of the stage. Then,
ignoring the amazed look upon Coleman's face, he proceeded gravely to
tune his violin to the piano. The act itself, the cool neatness with
which it was performed, the astonished face of the outraged pianist,
all together created a situation excessively funny. The effect upon
the audience was first one of surpr