He screams loudly:
“How could I have made such a terrible mistake?”
A few passers-by shake their heads and hurry along. The frightened faces look even more concerned.
“Don’t you see?” Pete cries, wandering away from the bushes with the object. “This!”
And then he holds the thing up: brass crumpled, once straight but now a mess of notes and golden rods.
“Look at it!” Pete cries again, pulling at his hair with his spare hand. “It’s not a tuba! Is it? This is a trumpet. Oh, I should have stayed at home and never walked out this way. I should never have taken my musical interests into the street."
Pete gets up and dusts himself off. Shaking, he throws the trumpet into the nearest rubbish bin. What can he do now in a world without tubas?