"Tell them yes," whispers Merry, nudgin' violent.

"Gwan!" I whispers back. "I'm in bad enough as it is." With that I
speaks up before he can stop me, "Not much!" says I. "That was dear
Meredith himself."

"Oh-oh!" says the voices together. Then there's whisperin' between
'em. One seems urgin' the other on to something, and at last it comes
out. "Young man," says the voice, smooth and persuadin', "please tell
us who--that is--which one of us was the serenade intended for?"

This brings the deepest groan of all from J. Meredith.

"Come on, now," says I, hoarse and low in his ear. "It's up to you.
Which?"

"Oh, really," he whispers back, "I--I can't!"

"You got to, and quick," says I. "Come now, was it Pansy?"

"No, no!" says he, gaspy.

"Huh!" says I. "Then Violet gets the decision." And I holds him off
by main strength while I calls out, "Why, ain't you on yet? It was for
Violet, of course."

"Ah-h-h-h! Thank you. Good night," comes a voice--no chorus this
time: just one--and the window is shut.

"There you are, Merry," says I. "It's all over. You're as good as