There's always a rakish, scampish twist about a fiddle's looks that seems
to say the Wicked One had a hand in making o'en; while angels be supposed
to play clar'nets in heaven, or som'at like 'em, if ye may believe
picters."

"Robert Penny, you was in the right," broke in the eldest Dewy. "They
should ha' stuck to strings. Your brass-man is a rafting dog--well and
good; your reed-man is a dab at stirring ye--well and good; your drum-man
is a rare bowel-shaker--good again. But I don't care who hears me say
it, nothing will spak to your heart wi' the sweetness o' the man of
strings!"

"Strings for ever!" said little Jimmy.

"Strings alone would have held their ground against all the new comers in
creation." ("True, true!" said Bowman.) "But clarinets was death."
("Death they was!" said Mr. Penny.) "And harmonions," William continued
in a louder voice, and getting excited by these signs of approval,
"harmonions and barrel-organs" ("Ah!" and groans from Spinks) "be
miserable--what shall I call 'em?--miserable--"

"Sinners," suggested Jimmy, who made large strides like the men, and did
not lag behind like the other little boys.

"Miserable dumbledores!"

"Right, William, and so they be--miserable dumbledores!" said the choir
with unanimity.

By this time they were crossing to a gate in the direction of the school,