There was a flash of blue gingham, a snarl of rage, a sound as of fifty pounds of small boy suddenly seated on the floor.
“Where’s yer fi’ cents?” a new voice inquired easily.
The choirmaster perceived with amazement that the owner of the voice, a freckled boy with an excessively retroussé nose, was sitting on the prostrate Tim.
“What is the meaning of this? Get up!” he said sternly. “What’s your name? I can’t have any of this sort of thing in my choir!”
The freckled boy did not rise. In fact, he seated himself more comfortably on Master Mullaly, and demanded again:
“Where’s yer fi’ cents?”
“’Where’s yer fi’ cents?’”
The choirmaster stepped forward and seized the offender’s collar. As his fingers tightened, the captive burst into the chorus of the moment before—it was the blackbird voice! So obstinate was the choirmaster’s first impression that he looked instinctively at the fallen Tim to catch the notes, but Tim was struggling meekly but firmly for breath, and this free trilling came from above him. The choirmaster relaxed his hold.
“It was you all the time!” he said in a stupor of surprise.