"I'll try you first, my boy," he then said, pointing to Newman Darnley,
a young fellow about twenty years old who sat at the end of the front
row of seats. "Step right out here."
Greatly embarrassed, Newman shambled forth and, turning, faced us.
"Now, sir," said the master, "catch the key-note from me. Do! Now
re--mi," and so forth.
Bear-Tone had great difficulty in getting Newman through the scale.
"'Fraid you never'll make a great singer, my boy," he said, "but you may
be able to grumble bass a little, if you prove to have an ear that can
follow. Next on that seat."
The pupil so designated was a Bagdad boy named Freeman Knights. He
hoarsely rattled off, "Do, re, mi, fa, sol," all on the same tone. When
Bear-Tone had spent some moments in trying to make him rise and fall on
the notes, he exclaimed:
"My dear boy, you may be able to drive oxen, but you'll never sing. It
wouldn't do you any good to stay here, and as the room is crowded the
best thing you can do is to run home."
Opening the door, he gave Freeman a friendly pat on the shoulder and a
push into better air outside.
Afterwards came Freeman's sister, Nellie Knights; she could discern no
difference between do and la--at which Bear-Tone heaved a sigh.
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