the young of the penny whistler (like that of the salmon) is occult from

observation; he is never heard until proficient; and providence (perhaps

alarmed by the works of Mr Mallock) defends human hearing from his first

attempts upon the upper octave.

A really noteworthy thing was taking place in a green lane, not far from

Padwick. On the bench of a carrier's cart there sat a tow-headed, lanky,

modest-looking youth; the reins were on his lap; the whip lay behind

him in the interior of the cart; the horse proceeded without guidance

or encouragement; the carrier (or the carrier's man), rapt into a higher

sphere than that of his daily occupations, his looks dwelling on the

skies, devoted himself wholly to a brand-new D penny whistle, whence he

diffidently endeavoured to elicit that pleasing melody 'The Ploughboy'.

To any observant person who should have chanced to saunter in that lane,

the hour would have been thrilling. 'Here at last,' he would have said,

'is the beginner.'

The tow-headed youth (whose name was Harker) had just encored himself

for the nineteenth time, when he was struck into the extreme of

confusion by the discovery that he was not alone.

There you have it!' cried a manly voice from the side of the road.

That's as good as I want to hear. Perhaps a leetle oilier in the run,'

the voice suggested, with meditative gusto. 'Give it us again.'

200

The Wrong Box