Ben was following the impulse to go forward and request the whistler to let him have a look at the device he used to render such melliferous sounds, when the man at the piano stepped in front of the instrument.
He drew open the flaps of a little satchel swung from his shoulder, revealing a number of tin whistles.
“The Sybilline whistle, gentlemen,” he announced in broken English. He was apparently of the better class of foreign street musicians. “This ees not a toy. It ees a musical instrument. We don’t say all ones can play as does these professore at my sides. But practeese he make perfects. Only ten cents, gentlemen.”
The man with the whistle gave out a vivid and rapid series of thrills, tremolos and bird imitations. A number of purchasers handed up their dimes, Ben among them. Then he retired to one side and closely inspected the whistle.
“Yes,” he said, his heart beating a trifle faster with pleasure and pride, “it is the same, it is my invention.”
Ben went up to the whistler, who had now ceased playing and was strolling to one side while his partner continued his appeals for purchasers in the crowd.
“Mister,” asked Ben, extending his bought whistle, “where do you get these.”
“The Sybilline—yes,” politely answered the man addressed. “At the city, my friend.”
“Where in the city?” pressed Ben.
“At the Central.”