To his surprise, when he had reached the hotel where they had agreed to meet, Fred was not there nor had anything been heard of him. The Portier assured Tom that the road was perfectly plain and nothing could have happened; but this did not altogether relieve him and it was with a good deal of anxiety, having ordered supper, that he sat down to wait. His suspense, however, did not last long. In fifteen minutes the door opened and Fred came in.
That something had happened, Tom guessed at once. There was a strange look of excitement on Fred’s face, and his step was more active, Tom thought, than a boy’s ought to be who had just walked over the Koppenberg.
“Feel my pulse, won’t you, Tom?” he cried nervously, throwing down his satchel, “and see if I’ve got a fever. Did I seem out of my head when I left you? Did I talk wild, Tom? Did you ever hear of insanity in my family? Really and truly, Tom, I don’t know whether I’m crazy or not.”
Tom was gazing at his friend in speechless astonishment.
“What in the world’s got into you?” he gasped.
“It didn’t get into me. I got into it; and it was a lunatic asylum as near as I could make out. Only the keeper looked like a clown in a circus and the rest were all children. I tried to get one of them away, Tom”—Fred’s voice broke a little—“but just then the whole thing vanished, just like people do in a dream, you know. I don’t know where she went. I could see the spot where she stood, but she wasn’t there—”
“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?” interrupted Tom.
“Dreaming!” indignantly. “Do I generally dream in daylight? Would I stop to dream when I was in such a hurry to get here ahead of you? and besides, Tom, I can whistle the march the man played. Just listen.”
Fred was a good whistler and never had to hear a tune more than once to remember it perfectly. Now his excitement lent strength and clearness to his notes so that any one might have taken them for those of the Piper himself. So loud and clear were they indeed that the Portier was drawn by them from his desk, the Ober-kellner from the dining-room, the Director from the office, and most of the guests from the reading and smoking rooms. In fact, before Fred was through he had quite an audience, most of whom, he noticed, had a puzzled, inquiring look on their faces as though something about the whistle or the tune were out of the way. What the look meant he did not have to wait long to find out.
“You whistle very well, sir,” the Director remarked, almost before Fred was fairly through; “but perhaps you are not aware that that tune is forbidden in Hameln.”