"But—aren't you all rather big to be left in a basket?"
"Oh, not all of us are left in the basket." Bobbie shook his rumpled mop with great finality.
"No." It was a smaller boy. "Just the fellers that never had any mothers or fathers."
"Like me," piped a chorister from the rear.
"And me," put in the tow-headed boy.
Hattie looked them over carefully. "Which," she inquired, "is the one that is borrowed from his aunt?"
The group stirred. A murmur went from boy to boy. "Mm! Yes! That one!
Oh, him!"
"That's Ikey Einstein," explained Bobbie. "And he's in the Church right now. You see, he's borrowed on account of his won-der-ful voice. Momsey says Ikey's got a song-bird in his throat."
Once more the group stirred, murmuring its assent. It was the testimony of a choir to its finest songster—a testimony strong with pride.
At that same moment, sounding from beyond the heavy door that gave to the Church, came a long-drawn howl of mingled rage and woe. "Wa-ah!"—it was the voice of a boy; "oh, wa-a-a-ah!"