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