After all, they were human boys, and they could all sing after a fashion, or they would not have been induced by relatives who had read the qualifications for choir membership to attend this trying function.
“’Hot time!’” burst from one of the youngsters.
“All right!” and the inviting melody drew them in; soon they were shouting lustily. Raucous altos, nasal sopranos, fatal attempts to compass a bass—at any rate, they were started. The verse was over, the chorus had begun, when a sudden sound sent the choirmaster’s heart to his throat, his hands left the keys. Into the medley of coarse, boyish shouting dropped a silvery thread of purest song, a very bird-note. For a moment it flowed on the level of the chorus, then suddenly, with an indescribable leap, a slurring rush, it rose to an octave above and led them all. The choirmaster twirled around on the stool.
“Who’s that? Which boy is singing up there?” he demanded excitedly. There was no reply. They grinned consciously at each other; one could imagine them all guilty.
“Come, come, boys! Don’t be silly—who was it?”
Silence, of the most sepulchral sort. Mr. Fellowes shrugged his shoulders, swung round again, and started the second verse. They dashed through it noisily; he picked out here and there a sweet little treble, one real alto. But his ears were pricked for something better, and presently it came. The rhythm was too enticing.
“Please, oh, please, oh, don’t you let me fall——”
“By George, he’s a human blackbird!”
“You’re all mine, an’ I love you best of all——”
“That’s high C!”