Pasco found that he was not comfortable at home; his wife would not unbend, and Kate kept out of his way. To his boisterous mirth, to his boastfulness, they made no response; when he stormed, they withdrew. He was uneasy in himself, suspicious of what men said of him, and alarmed when he heard from his lawyer, Mr. Squire, that the insurance company refused to pay the sum for which he had insured. Society, distraction, were necessary for him. As he could find none at home, he wandered to the village tavern, the Lamb and Flag, to seek both there. The first occasion was the evening of the practice of the village orchestra, and it was attended by every member of the same, not only because all desired to say something relative to the matter exercising all minds, but also because the score of a new Te Deum had been placed before them, the composition of the ex-schoolmaster. Puddicombe in F was to be rehearsed by the instruments before the vocalists were called in. Puddicombe in F was expected to be a huge success, and to make Puddicombe known through the wide world of music, and to render Coombe-in-Teignhead famous in after generations, just as Exeter was known as the place which had produced Mr. Jackson, who had won such a fame with his Te Deum. Each instrumentalist had his separate sheet of music, and each devoted himself to his score with seriousness. Puddicombe in F began with a movement slow and stately, with all the harmonies in thirds and fifths, and a solemn tum-tum bass. Then, precipitately, it transformed itself into something headed _Fugg_. If it had been entitled _fugue_, no one would have understood what was meant. But “fugg” signified that the instruments were to perform a sort of musical leap-frog, to go higgledy-piggledy, one after the other, like children tumbling out of school, with the master behind them threatening to whack the hindermost. And, verily, never was a fugue more of a higgledy-piggledy devil-take-the-hindermost character than this one of Puddicombe in F, never such a caterwauling of cats that could surpass it in discords, with random gruntings in and out of the violoncello. A villager, standing breathless outside, listening, ventured to say to the landlord, who was smoking complacently at his door, “There don’t seem to be much tune in it.” “No; but there’s tremendous noise.” The landlord drew whiffs, blew out the smoke in a long column, and said, smiling, “Wait till we come to the _largo molto tranquillo con affettuoso caprizio_.” “What’s that?” asked the bumpkin, in an awestruck tone. “It’s something writ on the music by the hand of Mr. Puddicombe. The Lord knows what it means!” The hubbub of the “fugg” came to an end, and the instruments paused, drew a sort of sigh, and, with stately tread, marched in unison _largo molto tranquillo con affettuoso caprizio_, and stalked through it to the end. “There’s tune there now, and be blowed,” said the landlord triumphantly.