“Why—what—what’s happened?” He stared in surprise. “Come on in and tell me.”
The story was soon told. “And Tum,” Florence ended with a note of dismay, “I ruined that picture! I had to. That puts an end to your big show.”
“Don’t let that trouble you.” The boy smiled happily. “Only yesterday Miss Mabee fixed up something quite wonderful for me. She has a friend, a director of music in a college. He wants someone to play the part of concertmeister in his orchestra and direct the strings in their practice. I have been given a musical scholarship.”
“And you’re going to college! How grand! Shake!” Florence held out a hand.
“Grand enough,” Tum agreed. “Now, however, you are the burning question of the hour. How and when are you going back to the studio?”
“How and when?” Florence repeated gloomily.
“Tell you what!” Tum exclaimed. “I’ve got a gun—a regular cannon. My dad used it in the war. Suppose we load it up and march on the enemy. If necessary, I’ll play the ‘Anvil Chorus’ on that old cannon, and there may be less trouble in the world after I am through.”
“Grand idea! Lead the way!” Florence was on her feet.
By a secret passage known only to Tum, they made their way to the studio entrance. Their expected battle, however, did not come off. They found the studio silent and quite deserted.
“We’ll stack our arms, pitch our tents, build a fire and—” Tum hesitated.