“Atten-shun!” shouted the red-headed boy to his army, and each soldier jumped up off the carpet and stood erect as possible. “I will now disband you, and deliver my farewell address.” Then he whispered to Uncle Ike, and the old man handed him a half dollar, when the captain gave the money to a boy who seemed to be second in command, and added, “Go and buy you some ice-cream soda, and be prepared to respond to the call to arms at a minute's notice. If France does not pardon Dreyfus, and I can get a lot of Jew boys to join us, we won't do a thing to France. Break ranks! Git!” and the boys went outdoors and made a rush for a soda fountain. “Now, Uncle Ike,” said the boy, as he watched his army going clown the street, “I have got a favor to ask of you. I want you to give me music lessons.” “Well, I'll be bunkoed,” said Uncle Ike, as he began to pull the sweater off over his head. “I can't sing anything but 'Marching Through Georgia.' What you want music lessons for?” “Well, sir, I'll tell you, if you won't laugh at me,” said the boy, blushing. “You see, my girl has got back from the seashore, where she has been taking salt-water baths. She was too fresh, but she is salty enough now, and her face and arms are tanned just like these Russia leather moccasins. You couldn't tell her from an Indian, only she doesn't smell like buckskin. She has been taking lessons all summer at a conservatory of music, and she can sing away up so high that when she strikes a high note and gargles on it, it makes your hair raise right up, and bristle, it is so full of electricity. She has got a tenor voice that----” “Hold on, hold on, you have got all mixed up,” said the old man. “She does not gargle. That is called warbling, or trilling, or trolling, or something. And no girl has a tenor voice. She must be a soprano.” “Well, that's what I want to take music lessons for, so I can talk with her intelligently about her music. Why, last night we were at a party, and I turned the music while she played and sang, and I got the wrong page, and got her all tangled up, and when she got through, and the people were telling her how beautiful she sang, I told her she had the most beautiful bass voice I ever saw, and she was so mad she wouldn't speak to me, so I want you to teach me which is tenor, and which is baritone, and which is that other thing, you know, Uncle Ike.” “Yes, I think I do,” said the old man as he turned his head away to keep from laughing. “You want to learn to be a he Patti, in four easy lessons. Why, you couldn't learn enough about music to be in her class in fourteen years. What you want to do is to look wise, and applaud when anybody gets through singing, and say bravo, and beautiful, and all that, but not give yourself away by commenting on the technique, see?”