"Noise! Did you say noise, Bill Hinkley--noise?"

"Yes. noise," answered the other with some peevishness in his accents.
The violinist looked at him incredulously, while he suffered the
point of the fiddle-bow to sink on a line with the floor; then,
after a moment's pause, he approached his companion, wearing in his
face the while, an appearance of the most grave inquiry, and when
sufficiently nigh, he suddenly brought the bow over the strings
of the instrument, immediately in William's ears, with a sharp and
emphatic movement, producing an effect to which the former annoying
crash, might well have been thought a very gentle effusion. This
was followed by an uncontrollable burst of laughter from the merry
lips of the musician.

"There--that's what I call a noise, Bill. Sweet Sall CAN make a
noise when I worry her into it; she's just like other women in that
respect; she'll be sure to squall out if you don't touch her just
in the right quarter. But the first time she did NOT go amiss, and
as for stunning you--but what's the matter? Where's the wind now?"

"Nothing--only I don't want to be deafened with such a clatter."

"Something's wrong, Bill, I know it. You look now for all the
world like a bottle of sour son, with the cork out, and ready to
boil over. As for Sall making a noise the first time, that's all
a notion, and a very strange one. She was as sweet-spoken then as
she was when you left me before supper. The last time, I confess,
I made her squall out on purpose. But what of that? you are not
the man to get angry with a little fun!"