otentiary, the one who could truly and
ably blow this magnificent horn, was sick or his mother was dead. At any
rate, there he wasn't. And in order not to irritate Culhane, a second
hostler had been dressed and given his seat and horn--only he couldn't
blow it. As we began to clamber in I heard him asking, "Can any of you
gentleman blow the trumpet? Do any of you gentleman know the regular
trumpet call?"

No one responded, although there was much discussion in a low key. Some
could, or thought they could, but hesitated to assume so frightful a
risk. At the same time Culhane, hearing the fuss and knowing perhaps
that his substitute could not trumpet, turned grimly around and said,
"Say, do you mean to say there isn't any one back there who knows how to
blow that thing? What's the matter with you, Caswell?" he called to
one, and getting only mumbled explanations from that quarter, called to
another, "How about you, Drewberry? Or you, Crashaw?"

All three apologized briskly. They were terrified by the mere thought of
trying. Indeed no one seemed eager to assume the responsibility, until
finally he became so threatening and assured us so volubly that unless
some immediate and cheerful response were made he would never again
waste one blank minute on a lot of blank-blank this and thats, that one
youth, a rash young society somebody from Rochester, volunteered more or
less feebly that he "thought" that "maybe he could manage it." He took a
seat directly under the pompously placed trumpeter, and we were off.

"Heigh-ho!" Out the gate and down the road and up a nearby slope at a
smart clip, all of us gazing cheerfully and possibly vainly about, for
it was a bright day and a gay country. Now the trumpeter, as is provided
for on all such occasions, lifted the trumpet to his lips and began on
the grandiose "ta-ra-ta-ta," but to our grief and pain, although he got
through fairly successfully on his first attempt, there was one place
where there was a slight hitch, a "false crack," as some one rowdyishly
remarked. Culhane, although tucking up his lines and stiffening his back
irritably at this flaw, said nothing. For after all a poor trumpeter was
better than none at all. A little later, however, the trumpeter having
hesitated to begin again, he called back, "Well, what about the horn?
What about the horn? Can't you do something with it? Have you quit for
the day?"

Up went the horn once more, and a most noble and encouraging
"T