There was a lot of wheels and queer-shaped jiggers inside of the organ. We didn’t know what they were for. But, as they looked kind of rusty, we cleaned them with an old shirt of Red’s and gave them a liberal oiling. There was no squeaking now when we turned the crank. Nor was there, to our disappointment, any music.
Red was in his glory. For he loves to tinker with machinery. About every so often he takes [[44]]the family clock to pieces. One time he whittled out a repeating rig-a-jig for his mother’s talking machine and ruined ten dollars’ worth of choice records.
His freckled nose deep in the organ’s chamber, he suddenly let out a yip.
“Here’s a clutch, fellows! That’s why it wouldn’t play. It wasn’t in gear. Try it now.”
Scoop grabbed the crank and started winding. There was a lot of wheezes and groans inside of the organ. Then it gave a sudden loud blat.
“Turn faster,” danced Red, the oil can in one hand and the screw driver in the other. “It’s getting ready to play a tune.”
Scoop turned for dear life. And after a bad coughing spell, the organ settled down to business.
“What’d I tell you?” cried Red. “It’s playing a tune.”
“What tune is it?” I grinned.
“Sounds like ‘The Old Oaken Bucket.’ Maybe, though, it’s something else. Anyway, it’s a tune. So why should we worry what it is?”