Up in one of the shady side yards stood Kent, turning the crank of a
hand-organ! He was facing the highway where the other two boys were,
but not a trace of recognition was in his face. Ranged in a semicircle
before him was a line of little children shuffling their toes to the gay
tune.
"It's Kent!" gasped Jot.
"Or his ghost--pretty lively one! Where in the world did he get that
hand-organ? And what's he done with his bike? Why--oh!"
Old Tilly added two and two, and, in the light of a sudden inspiration,
they made four. Yes, of course, that was it, but he would wait and let
Jot guess it out for himself. Jot had other business in hand just then.
"Say, come on up there with the youngsters, Old Till!" he whispered
excitedly. "Come on, quick! We'll make him smile! He can't keep his
face with us tagging on with the children!"
They left their wheels beside the road and stalked solemnly up the path.
The children were too intent on the music to notice them, and the figure
at the crank did not change its stiff, military attitude. The tune
lurched and swayed on.
Suddenly, with a sharp click, the music swept into something majestic
and martial, with the tread of soldiers' feet and the boom of drums in
it. The faces of the little children grew solemn, and unconsciously
their little shoulders straightened and they stood "at attention." They
were all little patriots at heart and they longed to step into file and
tramp away to that splendid music.
Again the tune changed sharply, and still again. Then the organ-grinder
slung his instrument with an experienced twist and twirl across his
shoulders, and took off his cap.
"Look, will you? He's going to pass it round!" giggled Jot, under his
breath. "He'll pass it to us, Old Till!"
"Keep your face straight, mind!" commanded Old Till, sharply.
The organ-grinder handed round his cap, up and down the crooked line of
his audience. The two sober boys at one end dropped in a number of
pennies, one at a time deliberately,
"Bless ye!" murmured the organ-grinder, gratefully. Jot's brown face
tweaked with the agony of keeping straight, but Old Tilly was equal to
the occasion. He assumed a benevolent, pitying expression.
"Hold on a minute!" he called. "Here's a nickel for your poor wife and
children. How many you got?"
"Five, sir, your honor," the musician murmured thickly.
"Starving?"
"Sure--all but a couple of the little uns. They're up 'n' dressed,
thank ye; bless ye!"
Jot made a strange, choking sound in his throat.
"Is the young gent took ill?" inquired the organ-grinder, solicitously.
"No, oh, no; only a slight attack of strangulating--he's liable to
attacks. It was the music--too much for him!"' Old Tilly gravely
explained, but his lips quivered and struggled to smile.
The whole little procession trailed slowly down the lane to the street.
At the next house and at all the others in succession, it turned in and
arranged itself in line again, prepared to listen with ears and dancing
toes. Jot and Old Tilly followed on in the rear. They found it hard
work to find pennies enough to drop into the organ-grinder's cap at
every round. Toward the end they economized narrowly.
The small settlement came to an abrupt ending just over the brow of the
hill. The houses gave out, and the musician and his audience swung
about and retraced their steps. The children dropped off, a few at a
time, until there were left only the three boys, who went on soberly
together.
"Oh, say!" broke out Jot at last.
"'Tis not for the likes o' me to 'say,' your honor," the organ-grinder
murmured humbly, and Jot gave him a violent nudge.
"Let's knock off foolin'!" he cried. "I say, where'd you get that
machine, Kentie? Where'd you get it? And for the sake o' goodness
gracious, where's your wheel?"
"'Turn, turn, my wheel,'" quoted Kent from the Fourth Reader. He was
shaking with suppressed laughter, that turned into astonishment at Old
Tilly's calm rejoinder. If it didn't take Old Till to ferret things
out!
"It isn't liable to 'turn, turn,' while that old tramp has it," Tilly
said calmly. "He isn't built for a rider. What kind of a trade did you
make, anyway? Going halves?"
"No, going wholes!" Kent answered briefly, and would say no more. They
went on down the sandy road. When they got back to the forlorn old
figure under the tree, it was slowly rising up and regarding them out of
tired, lack-luster eyes. The wheel still leaned comfortably in its
place close by.
"Me--bring--money. Play--tunes. You--buy--food," Kent said very slowly
and distinctly, pausing between every word. "He's a foreigner, you
know," he explained over his shoulder to the boys. "He no understand.
You have to talk pigeon English to him. See how he catches on to what I
said?"
The old face had grown less dull and weary. A slow light seemed to
illumine it. As the little stream of pennies dripped into the
tremulous, wrinkled old hand, it suddenly flashed into a smile. Then a
stream of strange words issued from the old man's lips. They tripped
over each other and made weird, indistinguishable combinations of sound,
but the boys translated them by the light of that smile. How pleased
the old fellow was! How he fingered over the pennies exultantly!
"Tell the whole story, old man," Old Tilly said quietly as they mounted
their wheels and glided off. "It looks like a reg'lar novel!"
"Yes, hurry up, can't you!" impatiently Jot urged. "Begin at the
beginning, and go clear through to the end."
"You've helped folks. Why shouldn't I? There weren't any old ladies
with empty water pails, or any cows in corn lots, so I had to take up
with the poor old organ-grinder. That's all."
"All!" scoffed Jot, "Go on with the rest of it, Kent Eddy!"
"Isn't any 'rest,'" grunted Kent, "unless you count the organ-grinder;
he had some-looked as if he'd rested. Well, sir"--Kent suddenly woke
up--"but without any fooling, you ought to have seen that old chap when
I came on him. He was all used up--heat, you know. There was a creek,
back a ways, and the water kind of pulled him up. He couldn't talk
English, but he offered me a black two-cent piece for pay. He turned
his pocket out to find it. That set me to thinking I'd make him a
little richer."
"Of course! Go on!" hurried Jot.
"Isn't any 'on.'"
"There's honor," Old Tilly cried softly. "I say that was splendid,
Kentie! I like that!"
Kent flushed uneasily. Old Tilly's face looked like father's when he
said his rare, hearty words of commendation.
"Well, the organ-grinder likes it, too!" Kent laughed. "Now he can have
something to eat. Poor old fellow! He couldn't have gone through all
those dooryards to save his life! He was 'most sunstruck. I told a
motherly old lady about him, at one of the houses, and she's going to be
on the lookout for him, and give him a snack of meat and bread."
They went on for half a mile quite silently. Then, without warning.
Jot suddenly began to laugh. He tumbled off his bicycle and collapsed
in a feeble heap.
"Don't anybody st-op me !" he cried. "It's dangerous! I'm having one o'
my 'attacks'!"
The others joined in, and, for a little, the woods rang with boyish
mirth.
"It was rich!" stammered Jot. "Passing the hat round capped it!"
"It was great!" laughed Old Tilly. "You're an actor, Kentie!"
"Me! What are you?"
"Well, I can't grind a hand-organ and pass round the hat like that!"
"I could!" Jot cried, suddenly sobering down and going through the
motions of turning a crank with airy ease. "It's 'most too easy for
me!"
The fun lasted until night. It was Saturday, and they rode until sunset
without further stops.
"We'll rest awhile and then go on by moonlight," Old Tilly said. "It
will be jolly and cool then. Besides, we don't want to be on the road
to-morrow. I promised mother I'd see that you all kept Sunday."
"And go to church ?" Jot said.
"Yes, and go to church, it there's one to go to anywhere," Old Tilly
rejoined quietly. "I told mother I'd see that you fellows went to
church quiet and nice, if possible. She put in the extra collars and
neckties on purpose."
A long rest, with a hearty lunch, and then they were off again in the
clear moonlight. It was splendid. The trees, the road, the pale,
ghostly houses--everything had a weird, charmed aspect. They might have
been riding through fairyland. It was growing late, they knew, and at
last they stopped, out of sheer weariness.
A great, square bulk loomed faintly before them in the waning moonlight.
It might be a house--might be a mountain! Jot spurted on ahead to
reconnoiter.
"House!" he shouted back. "Doors open--all quiet--guess it's on a picnic
ground. I felt a stair that seemed to lead up to a balcony or
something."
"Well, we're sleepy enough. We'll take anything we can get!" yawned
Kent.
"Come on, then."
And, riding into what seemed a yard, they found a good place for their
wheels under some bushes. The moon was too low to give them any light,
but the boys found the doorway to the big building and went up the
stairs, guided by their hands along the narrow passageway. They could
only discern a queer little enclosure, topped by a little rail. They
were too thoroughly tired out to be curious, and, feeling some narrow
seats, they lay down, and, making themselves comfortable, were soon
asleep.
Jot was dreaming that Old Tilly had made him go to church and the people
were singing, when suddenly he opened his eyes. Was he dreaming? Over
him floated a sweet hymn, one his mother loved to join in singing at
church Sunday morning. The boy's eyes opened wider still at sight of
flecks of sunshine dancing on the walls near, and, raising his head, he
saw through the clear little panes of a long window, where the green
leaves were dancing against the glass. The singing went on, and the boy
raised himself in a wondering fashion upon his elbow. Where were they?
Jot lifted his head still higher, and, glancing over the railing, he
looked down upon a goodly company. The amazement on his face grew
greater instead of less. They were in church!--that was sure. Jot
looked back to his sleeping companions and held his breath as one of
them stirred uneasily. What if he should roll off the bench? The hymn
grew louder and sweeter, and Jot smoothed out his hair and straightened
his necktie and sat up straight. The branches outside tapped the
narrow, small paned window near him, and from the open windows below the
sweet beauty of the summer morning stole in. But as the minister rose
to give out his text, a sound from one of the boys back of him caused
Jot to turn.