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.