“I had no idea I was so popular.” Hal bowed his thanks to the noisy musicians.
“You are not,” the Crane hastened to inform him. “That choice selection we just rendered was in honor of the girls. Don’t credit yourself with everything. It’s horribly conceited.”
“I’m glad you named it as a ‘selection,’” Hal made scathing retort.
“What, may I ask, would you name it?” queried Danny with a dangerous affability.
“Making night hideous, or, a disgraceful racket, or, the last convulsions of a would-be jazz band. Any little appellation like that would be strictly appropriate.” Hal beamed ironically on the three. “Nice little drummer boy you have there.”
Supposedly offended, Danny could not repress a loud snicker at this fling. Miles Burton stood six feet, minus shoes. With Charlie’s toy drum strung round his neck on a narrow blue ribbon, he was distinctly mirth-inspiring.
“Throw any more remarks like that about me and you’ll find out my real disposition,” warned Miles in a deep bass growl.
“Come ladies; let us hasten on before trouble overtakes us—me, I mean. Back, varlets. Grab your instruments of torture and begone.” Hal grandly motioned the objectionable varlets out of the way.
“That’s what I say,” called Jerry from the top step. “For once I agree with Hal. Let the girls come up on the porch, can’t you? You four sillies can stay outside and rave. Notice how well Laurie and Harry are behaving. Try to be a little like them, if you can.”
“You can’t know them as I do,” rumbled Miles.