Slowly and with stately stride the horse walked up the street between the
rows of silent waiting people. In front of the town hall the tall military
figure, rising in the saddle, took one haughty look at the multitude, and
then, putting the bugle to his lips, blew.
Out of the bugle came only a thin piercing shriek followed by a squawk.
Again Windy put the bugle to his lips and again the same dismal squawk was
his only reward. On his face was a look of helpless boyish astonishment.
And in a moment the people knew. It was only another of Windy McPherson's
pretensions. He couldn't blow a bugle at all.
A great shout of laughter rolled down the street. Men and women sat on the
curbstones and laughed until they were tired. Then, looking at the figure
upon the motionless horse, they laughed again.
Windy looked about him with troubled eyes. It is doubtful if he had ever
had a bugle to his lips until that moment, but he was filled with wonder
and astonishment that the reveille did not roll forth. He had heard the
thing a thousand times and had it clearly in his mind; with all his heart
he wanted it to roll forth, and could picture the street ringing with it
and the applause of the people; the thing, he felt, was in him, and it was
only a fatal blunder in nature that it did not come out at the flaring end
of the bugle.
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