"Do I have to take it now?" asked Gwendolyn.
"To-morrow you'll wake up as good as new," asserted Jane. She touched her tongue with the spoon, then smacked her lips. "Why, dearie, it's—"
She was interrupted. From the direction of the side window there came a burst of instrumental music. With it, singing the words of a waltz from a popular opera, blended a thin, cracked voice.
Before Jane could put out a restraining hand, Gwendolyn bounced to her knees. "Oh, it's the old hand-organ man!" she cried. "It's the old hand-organ man! Oh, where's some money? I want to give him some money!"
Jane threw up both hands wildly. "Oh, did I ever have such luck!" she exclaimed. Then, between her teeth, and pressing Gwendolyn back upon the pillows, "You lay down or I'll shake you!"
"Oh, please let him stay just this time!" begged Gwendolyn; "I like him, Jane!"
"I'll stay him!" promised Jane, grimly. She marched to the side window, threw up the sash and leaned out. "Here, you!" she called down roughly. "You git!"
"Oh, Jane!" plead Gwendolyn.
The thin, cracked voice fell silent. The waltz slowed its tempo, then came to a gasping stop.
"How's a body to git a child asleep with that old wheeze of yours goin'?" demanded Jane. "We don't want you here. Move along!"