'Oh, will they?' said the Lion. He loyally believed everything that his mistress said, but knowing the folk who lived in this neighbourhood, he had his doubts of this.
'Now, whom shall we sing to?' she asked.
'Well,' said the Lion rubbing his chin doubtfully, 'there are the Ourang-outangs, a decent family—at least, now and then.'
'O'rang o'tang!' said Baby Jane. 'I can't say that word. I used to know some people called O'Flanagan; let us call them the O'Flanagans.'
'You are always so clever!' said the Lion admiringly. 'Well, let us go and sing to the Flanagans. They live in the third palm tree on the left in the riverside avenue.'
So they set off under the starlit sky, Baby Jane on the Bear's shoulder, and the others close round her, all practising their voices and all very merry.
It was rather undignified of the Lion to sing falsetto, but he seemed to fancy that he did it well, and so he kept it up—a shrill squeal that now and then broke down suddenly into his own deep roar.
When they were still some way from the riverside avenue they heard distant sounds of a terrible riot.
'I do hope it is not the Flanagans,' said Baby Jane.
But unfortunately it was the Flanagans. The screeching and hurrooing and thwack-slamming that was going on up that tree was marvellous.