Sube Cane Part 10

"That's right! Stick to it!" growled his father. "I suppose I may as well tell you. It's like a bra.s.s kettle with a drumhead over the top.

Now run along and don't bother me any more."

"But how do you play it?"

"What a question! Why, with sticks, of course!"

But Sube was not to be put off. "How many? One? Or two?" he asked as he edged towards the door.

"Two, of course!" responded his father.

"Like a snare drum?" Sube called back as he tarried in the doorway.

Seeing that he was about to be relieved of his son's presence Mr. Cane amplified a little. "More like two small ba.s.s drumsticks," he explained.

"Now run along and don't bother me again to-day, for I am very busy."

Sube followed his mother into the kitchen. "How'm I goin' to get a ba.s.s drum?" he teased. "Mompsie, how'm I goin' to get--"

"Whatever put this drum business into your head?" she asked. "You know any kind of noise affects your father!"

"We won't make any noise round here," he a.s.sured her. "Honest we won't.

But we want to march in the Decoration Day parade."

"Why don't you get up a nice little company of soldiers," suggested his mother. "I'll fix a uniform for you, and perhaps your father would let you carry his sword. But I will not help you to get any more drums or other noise-making things. A nice little company of soldiers would be just the thing; and I think your father would drill you once or twice to show you how--"

"Dad drill _me_! I guess not! I don't want any 'nice little comp'ny of soldiers,' anyway. I want a drum corpse!"

"You talk to the other boys about a nice little company of soldiers.

That would be just the thing!"

But Sube was not interested in soldiery. The depths of his being had been sounded by the throb of the Henderson Martial Band. Creative instincts had been aroused that only expression could satisfy. He abandoned the quest of the drum and left the house. At the barn he found Gizzard Tobin waiting for him.

"Well, what luck?" called Gizzard as Sube approached.

"Nuthin' doin'," muttered Sube. "Dad said he'd kick a hole through any drum he caught on the premises, and my mother wouldn't do a thing for a drum corpse. She wanted me to get up a pimply little company of soldiers."

"Rotten," voted Gizzard. "What we goin'--"

"Say! But I got onto one good thing!" Sube suddenly recalled. "It's another kind of a drum!"

And Gizzard learned with interest the details of the construction and operation of the kettle drum.

"Hey!" he cried suddenly. "I know where there's a bra.s.s kettle! It's a blinger, too!"

"Where?"

"In my gran'mother's parlor! There's a spinning-wheel and a bed-warmer and a lot of ol' fas.h.i.+oned junk!"

"But she won't let you take it."

"Who's goin' to ask 'er?" sneered Gizzard. "I'll jus' sneak in there and borrow it!"

"Aw, you don't dare!"

"I don't, don't I? Well, you jus' come on and watch me. I'll show you whether I do or not!"

A little later a s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s kettle was handed out of one of Grandma Tobin's parlor windows and was slipped into a sack, which was carelessly slung over Sube's shoulder when Gizzard emerged from the kitchen door with two cookies in his hand. That same day Cathead's banjo disappeared, to be found a year later minus the head, which the mice had doubtless devoured. But the new drum corps was still without a ba.s.s drum.

Next day, however, Gizzard brought glad tidings. "Hey!" he shouted from afar. "I'm onto a ba.s.s drum!"

"Better get off," cautioned Sube; "you might bust it."

"I know where there is one, jus' the same!"

"Where?" Sube was in earnest now.

"My dad says Charley Burton used to have one, and it must be up in his mother's attic now!"

Sube's face lengthened. "Gee! That's hard luck! Ol' lady Burton wouldn't give me a crumb if I was starvin', nor you neither. She thinks we killed that ol' cat of hers."

"Couldn't we get somebody else to ask her for it? Biscuit or somebody?"

"Who'd he tell her it was for?"

"Oh, a Sunday School entertainment or something."

"They don't use drums in Sunday School."

"Then he could tell her it was for a school doin's!"

The two boys looked at each other for a moment, then Sube turned and darted out of the barn. "Be back in a minute!" he shouted as he started for the house.

Presently he returned carrying under his coat an autograph alb.u.m that was one of Cathead's most cherished possessions. He ran through the pages until he came to the signature of Professor Ingraham, the princ.i.p.al of the school. At the first glance the name startled them; it looked so much like its maker. But after a little it lost its terror and presented nothing but pleasant possibilities.

"I don't know jus' what you think you're goin' to do with that,"

Gizzard, remarked at length.

"You see, there's lots of room above it," Sube suggested tentatively.

"'Yes, but she'd know the writin' was diff'rent," Gizzard hastened to observe.

For a moment Sube was silent. Then he punched Gizzard jovially in the ribs. "Not if I wrote it on the typewriter!" he cried.

Then he stuck out his stomach in imitation of a ba.s.s drum and marched around saying:

"Boom!--Boom!--Boom! Boom! Boom!--Boom!--Boom!--Boom! Boom! Boom!"

"But who'll typewrite it?" asked Gizzard.