Church-beadle Asker had had the foresight to bring his own clarinet. It was in the back pocket of his greatcoat, so that he had only to go down to the office and fetch it. Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt, sitting in his usual corner by the fire, tried to put on a good face, though he could not perform on any musical instrument with his gout-stiffened fingers. But the Lieutenant now went over to him with the triangle, which he could manage with ease. So the Colour-Sergeant, too, was happy. Major Ehrencrona sat blowing smoke through his big white moustache. He saw how one after another had been provided with an instrument, but feigned indifference. “Just give me a couple of pot-lids,” he said to the Lieutenant, “so that I may at least join in the noise-making. I know, of course, that the instrument I play is not to be found in this house.” Like a streak, the Lieutenant darted into the parlour and came back with a brilliantly polished French horn, with green silk cord and tassel, he had managed to procure for the Major. “What do you say to this, Uncle?” he asked him. The old major beamed. “Ha! you’re a real fellow, Brother Eric Gustaf!” He put down his pipe and began to toot vociferously, sending out a volley of ear-splitting blasts. Now that the guests were all furnished with instruments, they remarked that the host himself had none. Whereupon, the Lieutenant produced a little wooden whistle, one end of which must be placed in a glass of water when one blew upon it. By so doing one could make trills as sweet as any nightingale’s. And last, they begged Fru Lagerlöf to accompany them on the piano. In honour of the Major they first essayed the stirring Finnish martial hymn, the “March of the Björneborgers.” Fru Lagerlöf struck the opening chords, and the orchestra followed as best it could. It was a clang and a din that took the house by storm. They did their best, all of them. Sexton Melanoz, Jan Asker, and Herr Tyberg played with a certain assurance, but the Major frequently lagged behind and the Lieutenant put in a few haphazard trills, due in part to the freakish behaviour of his “nightingale” and in part to a mischievous desire to throw the others out of time. When they had played the march through once they were so enlivened and interested they wanted to go over it again, to get it quite perfect. The Major blew and tooted till his eyes were red and his cheeks distended, as if ready to split. Obviously, he was not as proficient at the horn as he had made himself out, for he did not play in time even on second trial. Of a sudden he jumped up and hurled the French horn across the room toward the chimney corner with such force that it came near crushing Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt’s most sensitive toe. “Hang it all!” he shouted. “I’m not going to sit here and spoil the Björneborgers’ March.... Play on, you who can!”