snare-drum.

In the Mechanicsburg band is a boy about fourteen years old, a muscular,
sturdy chunk of a lad. He walks with his heels down, his calves bulged
out behind, his head up, and the regular, proper swagger of a bandsman.
He hasn't any uniform, but he's all right. He plays a solo B part, and
he and the other solo cornet spell each other. On the repeat of every
strain my boy rests, and rubs his lips with his forefinger, while he
looks at the populace with bright, expectant eyes. When he blows, he
scowls, and brings the cushion of muscle on the point of his chin clear
up to his under lip, and he draws his breath through the corners of his
mouth. He's the real thing. Bright boy, too, I judge, the kind that has
a quick answer for everybody, like: "Aw, go chase yerself," or "Go on,
yeh big stiff." Watch him on the countermarch when they pass the Radnor
cornet band. The Radnors broke up the Mechanicsburg band last year
and they're going to try to do it again this year. The musicians blow
themselves the color of a huckleberry, and the drummers grit their
teeth, and try to pound holes in their sheep-skins. Aha! It's the Radnor
band got rattled in its time this year. Went all to pieces. The boy
snatches, a rest. "Yah!" he squawks. "Didge ever get left?" and picks up
the tune again. I wish I could play the cornet. Wouldn't play solo B or
I wouldn't play any--Ooooooooh! Did you see that? Took that stick by the
other end from the knob and slung it away, 'way up in the air, whirling
like sixty, and caught it when it came down and never missed a step.
Look at him juggle it from hand to hand, over his shoulder, and behind
his back, and under one leg, whirling so fast that you can hardly see
it, and all in perfect step. Whope! I thought he was going to drop it
that time but he didn't. That's something you don't see in the cities.
There, all the drum-major does with his stick is just to point it the
way the band is to go. I like our fashion the best. Geeminentally! Look
at that! I bet it went up in the air forty feet if it went an inch. I
wish I was a drummajor. I guess I'd sooner be a drum-major than anything
else. Oh, well, detective--that's different.

Let's go farther along. Don't get too near the judges' stand. I know.
It's the best place to see the finish of an event, but I've been to
Firemen's Tournament before. You let me pick out the seats. Up close to
the judges' stand is all right till you come to the "wet races." What