At the end of this street we at length paused before the office, as I
saw, of "The Red Gap _Recorder_; Daily and Weekly." Cousin Egbert
entered here, but came out almost at once.
"Henshaw ain't there, and she said I got to be sure and give him this
here piece personally; so come on. He's up to a lawn-feet."
"A social function, sir?" I asked.
"No; just a lawn-feet up in Judge Ballard's front yard to raise money
for new uniforms for the band--that's what the boy said in there."
"But would it not be highly improper for me to appear there, sir?" I
at once objected. "I fear it's not done, sir."
"Shucks!" he insisted, "don't talk foolish that way. You're a peach of
a little mixer all right. Come on! Everybody goes. They'll even let me
in. I can give this here piece to Henshaw and then we'll spend a
little money to help the band-boys along."
My misgivings were by no means dispelled, yet as the affair seemed to
be public rather than smart, I allowed myself to be led on.
Into another street of residences we turned, and after a brisk walk I
was able to identify the "front yard" of which my companion had
spoken. The strains of an orchestra came to us and from the trees and
shrubbery gleamed the lights of paper lanterns. I could discern tents
and marquees, a throng of people moving among them.
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