"No; you didn't suggest it. I hate boys who have to be told."

Taffy was huffed, and pretended to return to his book. By-and-by she
called up to him:

"Tell me, what's written on this gun of yours?"

"Sevastopol--that's a Russian town. The English took it by storm."

"What! the soldiers over there?"

"No, they're only bandsmen; and they're too young. But I expect the
Colonel was there. He's upstairs in the Mayoralty, dining.
He's quite an old man, but I've heard father say he was as brave as a
lion when the fighting happened."

The girl climbed off the gun.

"I'm going to have a look at him," she said; and turning her back on
Taffy, she sauntered off across the square, just as the band struck
up the first note of the overture from _Semiramide_. A waltz of
Strauss followed, and then came a cornet solo by the bandmaster, and
a medley of old English tunes. To all of these Taffy listened.
It had fallen too dark to read, and the boy was always sensitive to
music. Often when he played alone broken phrases and scraps of
remembered tunes came into his head and repeated themselves over and
over. Then he would drop his game and wander about restlessly,
trying to fix and complete the melody; and somehow in the process the
melody always became a story, or so like a story that he never knew