d he were the Emperor of Russia with a cannon charged
with grape-shot loaded to the muzzle and pointed at the centre of that
brass band, in which case he would--. Well, the old gentleman never
thought out the sentence, but he stamped on and raved a little as the
band brayed below his window.

There was a sick man in a room not far from the old lawyer's office. He
had spent two days and two nights in the delirium of fever. At last the
doctor succeeded in getting him to fall into a slumber. It was not a
very sound one; but such as it was it was of inestimable value to the
sick man. The brass band, however, brayed the slumber away to the
strains of "Rule Britannia," and effectually restored the delirium with
"God Save the Queen."

There were many other interesting little scenes enacted in that street
in consequence of the harmonious music of that brass band, but I shall
refrain from entering into farther particulars. Suffice it to say that
Gildart stood listening to it for some time with evident delight.

"Splendid," he muttered, as an absolutely appalling burst of discord
rent the surrounding air and left it in tatters. "Magnificent! I think
that will do."

"You seem fond of bad music, sir," observed an elderly gentleman, who
had been standing near a doorway looking at the middy with a quiet
smile.

"Yes, on the present occasion I am," replied Gildart; "discord suits my
taste just now, and noise is pleasant to my ear."

The band ceased to play at that moment, and Gildart, stepping up to the
man who appeared to be the leader, inasmuch as he performed on the
clarionet, asked him to turn aside with him for a few minutes.

The man obeyed with a look of surprise, not unmingled with suspicion.

"You are leader of this band?"

"Yes, sir, I ham."

"Have you any objection to earn a sovereign or two?"

"No, sir, I han't."

"It's a goodish band," observed Gildart.

"A fus'-rater," replied the clarionet. "No doubt the trombone is a
little cracked and brassy, so to speak, because of a hinfluenza as has
wonted him for some weeks; but there's good stuff in 'im, sir, and
plenty o' lungs. The key-bugle is a noo 'and, but 'e's capital,
'ticklerly in the 'igh notes an' flats; besides, bein' young, 'e'll
improve. As to the French 'orn, there ain't his ekal in the country;
w'en he does the pathetic it would make a banker weep. You like
pathetic music, sir?"

"Not much," replied the middy.

"No! now that's hodd.