“Ol' King Cole was a merry ol' soul,” hummed McQuade, lightly.
“An'—a—merry—ol'—soul—was—he!—was—he!” thundered the chorus, deep-toned and strong. “He had a wife for every toe, an' some toes counted three!”
“Listen!” cried Meade, holding up his hand.
“An' every wife had sixteen dogs, an' every dog a flea!” shouted a voice from the besiegers, followed by a roar of laughter.
The hilarity continued until dark, only stopping when John Terry slipped out of the window, dropped to all-fours and stuck his head around the corner of the rear wall. He saw many stars and was silently handed to Pete Wilson.
“What was that noise?” exclaimed Boggs in a low tone. “Are you all right, Terry?” he asked, anxiously.
Three knocks on the wall replied to his question and then McQuade went out, and three more knocks were heard.
“Wonder why they make that funny noise,” muttered Boggs.
“Bumped inter something, I reckon,” replied Jim Larkin. “Get out of my way—I'm next.”
Boggs listened intently and then pushed Duke Lane back. “Don't like that—sounds like a crack on the head. Hey, Jim! Say something!” he called softly. The three knocks were repeated, but Boggs was suspicious and he shook his head decisively. “To 'ell with the knocking—say something!”