Miss Marcia chortled. "That's a funnier face than the last," she said.

"A cello."

"Good!"

"A violin," he announced.

"Not so good"; she smiled in appreciative criticism.

"I'll have to practise up on it. But listen to this. I'm all right on
the cornet."

It did sound like a cornet, even to the tremolo and the tonguing.
People were looking up from their steamer-chairs now, and one or two
pedestrians had gathered about; Mr. Masterson had an appreciative
audience. Encouraged, he essayed another effort. He wrinkled his
comical face and pursed up his lips, starting three or four times, and
shaking his head at his failures. The others were watching him much as
they would a catherine-wheel that refused to ignite. At last he
brought forth a puny little sound.

"I really don't know," observed the amateur entertainer blandly, "what
that is."

Every one burst into roars, and it was at this moment that the Admiral
hove in sight round the corner of the deck-house. When Miss Dorn
looked up, Mr. Masterson was gone; the crowd, still laughing, was
dwindling; and there stood her uncle. He had on what she termed his
"quarter-deck expression." Before he could speak she had taken him by