"He always has his mouth-organ, or how could he speak?" asked an athletic looking lad walking beside Jack.
"That's a poor joke, Sam Palmer," commented Jack, and he ducked just in time to avoid a playful fist Sam shot out.
"Want me to play?" asked Fred.
"Play? You couldn't play in a hundred years," broke in Nat Anderson,
Jack's best chum. "But make a noise like music."
"Play yourself, if you're so smart!" retorted Fred.
"Simultaneous Smithereens!" cried Nat, using one of his characteristic expressions. "Don't get mad. Go ahead and play."
"Yes, liven things up a bit," went on Jack. "Give us a good marching tune. We're far enough off now so none at the Hall can hear us."
Fred blew a lively air and the score of boys behind him began to march in step.
"What is it this time?" asked Sam in a low tone, of Jack. "You haven't let on a word."
"We're going to administer a deserved rebuke to a certain character in this town," Jack answered. "You've heard of Old Smelts, haven't you?"