“Stop it!” she cried, her fingers in her ears. “Stop it!”
“What’s the matter?” grinned Scoop, when the organ had expired. “Don’t you like music, Mrs. Meyers?”
“Yes, I like music. I thought it was Donald screaming for help.” She pressed a hand to her heart and drew a deep breath. “Such a scare as I had.” She came closer and gave the organ a puzzled glance. “What in the world is it?—a hand organ?”
“It’s an orchestrelle,” I grinned, remembering the organ’s fancy name.
“It’s a part of our show,” Red spoke up, glowing with pride. Then he told his mother about the merry-go-round in Mr. Solbeam’s shed.
“It’s a wonder to me,” she said stiffly, “that you didn’t lug the whole merry-go-round home, while you were about it.”
Mother came into sight in the barn door.
“See what our sons and heirs have dragged home from somebody’s ash pile,” pointed Mrs. Meyers. “A hand organ,” she added, and from the way she said it you could have imagined that our fine organ was a cross-eyed flea on a shunned alley cat.
I didn’t blame Red for stiffening. [[47]]
“How do you get that way?” he cried, scowling. “We paid two dollars for it. It’s a good organ, too. I like it better than our old piano.”