“Yep,” replied the singer, “it was me. Did yer think it was him?” with a slight jounce to indicate his victim.
“Get up, won’t you, and sing me something else,” the choirmaster urged. The boy rose promptly.
“What’ll I sing?” he returned amicably. There had been a different tone in the choirmaster’s voice.
“Happy Home! Happy Home!” the crowd demanded. They had stood to one side in the most neutral manner during the brief struggle that had laid Tim low, and listened respectfully to the brief colloquy that followed. It was evident that past experience had suggested this attitude on their part.
The choirmaster looked relieved. He had no narrow prejudices, but he realized that a hymn like “My Happy Home” comes with good effect from the parish-hall windows.
“Where’s your mouth organ?” demanded the freckled one of a larger boy in the crowd. The latter promptly produced the instrument in question, cuddled it in both hands a moment after the fashion of the virtuoso, and drew forth the jerky and complex series of strains peculiar to it. It was evidently a prelude—a tune vaguely familiar to the choirmaster. Suddenly the boy’s voice burst into this sombre background:
“I’d leave my yappy yome fer you,
Oo-oo-oo-oo!”
“’I’d leave my yappy yome fer you, Oo-oo-oo-oo!’”