“If he does, I hope he will sing it so low I can’t hear it,” muttered Browning. “I’ve heard him sing. The toothache is delirious delight compared to his singing.”
“Vale,” said Hans, with assumed modesty, “I don’d put meinseluf vorwart as no brimer donners, but I can vawble in a vay dot vill surbrise you.”
“That’s a fact,” nodded Bruce. “Everybody secure a supply of cotton before he begins. You will need it to stop your ears.”
“Vot vos dot?” demanded the Dutch boy, angrily. “You vos shelus, dot’s vot’s der madder you mit! You knew I vos goin’ to took der shine off vrom your sunging, und you don’d vant me to done dot. Vale, Misder Prowning, you don’d run der vorld!”
“Oh, don’t mind him, Mr. Dunnerwust,” said Hattie. “I am sure we are all very anxious to hear you sing.”
“Yes, indeed!” cried several other girls, taking the cue from Hattie and crowding about Hans. “Please sing, Mr. Dunnerwust.”
“Vale,” said Hans, smiling and putting his hand over his face in a manner meant to express great embarrassment, “it vill gif you great bleasure—no, I mean it vill gif me great bleasure to sung to der laties. I nefer could resist der laties.”
He arose and bowed, with his hand on his heart.
“Oh, how charming!” cried several of the girls, who had been given the tip by Merriwell early in the evening to have sport with the Dutch boy. “Do sing, Mr. Dunnerwust!”
“Before you begin, Hans,” laughed Frank, “you had better make sure no one in the room has a gun.”