revealed an arms-rack with some twenty of the
newest-pattern rifles standing ready for use, and bayonets and
bandoliers to match each breech-loading piece.

A peculiarly innocent baby-like look came over his companion's face as
he opened his desk and took out a little flat oblong mahogany case and
said softly:

"Going to play at soldiers again? Only to think of Oliver West,
Esquire, learning to shoulder arms and right-about face when a
drill-sergeant barks at him."

"Look here, Anson," cried the young fellow warmly; "is that meant for a
sneer?"

"Me sneer?" protested the plump-looking cherubic clerk. "Oh dear, no!
I never indulge in sneers, and I never quarrel, and I never fight."

"Humph!" ejaculated the rifle-bearer.

"I only think it's all braggadocio nonsense for a lot of fellows to go
wasting time drilling and volunteering when they might acquire such an
accomplishment as this."

As the speaker addressed his warlike companion he tapped the lid of his
case, opened it, and revealed three joints of a flute lying snugly in
purple-velvet fittings, and, taking them out, he proceeded to lick the
ends all round in a tomcat sort of way, and screwed them together,
evidently with a great deal of satisfaction to himself, for he smiled
softly.

"Bah! It's a deal more creditable to be prepared to defend the place
against the Boers. Better join us, Anson."

"Me? No, thank you, unless you start a band and make me bandmaster."

"We shall want no music," said West, laughing. "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 fami