“Band tootlin’ don’t keep _me_ warm,” said Brickett, as he stuffed the fuel into the stove. “Any time my system of runnin’ things in this store don’t suit the loafers, said loafers know what they can do.” “Ain’t no need of goin’ ’round makin’ noise jest for the sake of makin’ it,” replied Buck. “Then you whistle whilst I pound boxes,” said the storekeeper, grinning, “and p’raps it’ll remind you of a fife and drum.” “Shet up a little while, won’t ye, now?” asked Micajah Dunham, wistfully. “Here I drive clear in from my place on band-practisin’ nights so’s to git a little music, and you run your clack so that a feller can’t hear.” He sat on the edge of a box, his purchases heaped in his lap, his fur cap on the floor in order that the earlappers might not obstruct his hearing. “Here’s a piece now that they play well,” he added, with the air of conviction of one who had followed faithfully the work of the new Palermo band. The men around the stove listened, Uncle Buck tapping his cane appreciatively. “There! Ain’t that good?” sighed Dunham as the band came down the homestretch and wound up the selection in a fine burst of melody. “I guess there ain’t no doubt but what Wat Mayo is hunky-dory as a musicianer,” agreed Amazeen. “I hear that the Port boys are gittin’ up a band, and they’re even talkin’ of one over to Newry Gore, and are goin’ to have Wat to teach both of ’em. I s’pose it’s all right for him to spend his time that way and earn a dollar, but it don’t seem much like man’s work to me.” “I s’pose you think the only real bus’ness a man ought to foller is to raise pertaters and fat shotes?” sarcastically observed Dunham. “I tell ye, I admire the Mayo boy’s spunk in makin’ something out of himself instead of a day-labourer. You can’t fit square pegs into round holes. He’s been woke up and put into the job that he fits. Now he’ll amount to some thing. Folks gen’rally amount to something when they git woke up--if it ain’t too late,” he added with a sigh. He snuggled his heap of parcels together on his knees. “I ought to be goin’ home,” he said, half to himself. “But, I swan, I’d like to hear one more tune.” “You seem to be livin’ pretty well nowadays out to your house,” remarked Uncle Buck, with a sly look at the bundles. “’Tain’t no more than bringin’ up the gen’ral av’rage, when you think of what we’ve missed to our house,” was Dunham’s stout rejoinder. He was ready nowadays to meet fearlessly the malicious thrusts of his old neighbours, with his new gospel of life. The music recommenced again across the street. This time the band was playing an accompaniment for a cornet solo by its leader. The notes, dulcet in the distance, seemed almost phrasing a song. Dunham’s eyes moistened with the sudden emotion of his simple nature.