MR. SMEETH GETS HIS RISE 2Q3

melody, something infinitely tender swelling out of the
strings or a ripple of laughter from the flutes and clari-
nets or a fine flare up by the whole orchestra, and for
these moments Mr. Smeeth waited, puzzled but excited,
like a man catching glimpses of some delectable strange
valley through the swirling mists of a mountain side.
As the symphony went on, he began to get the hang of it
more and more, and these moments returned more
frequently, until at last, in the final section, the great
moment arrived and justified everything, the whole
symphony concert.

It began, this last part, with some muffled and doleful
sounds from the brass instruments. He had heard some
of those grim snatches of tune earlier on in the sym-
phony,'and now when they were repeated in this fashion
they had a queer effect on him, almost frightened him.
It was as if all the wrorkhouses and hospitals and ceme-
teries of North London had been flashed past his eyes.
Those brass instruments didn't think Smeeth had much
of a chance. All the violins were sorry about it; they pro-
tested, they shook, they wept; but the horns and
trumpets and trombones came back and blew them
away. Then the whole orchestra became tumultuous, and
one voice after another raised itself above the menacing
din, cried in anger, cried in sorrow, and was lost again.
There were queer little intervals, during one of which
only the strings played, and they twanged and plucked
instead of using their bows, and the twanging and pluck-
ing; quite soft and slow at first, got louder and faster
until it seemed as if there was danger everywhere. Then,
just when it seemed as if something was going to burst,
the twanging and plucking was over, and the great
mournful sounds came reeling out again; like doomed