The organ was resting on a portable stool, and behind it Art could see its owner sitting on the low iron railing. He was drinking coffee or soup out of a cup filled from a bottle in the hands of a little girl seated on a basket in front of him. The group made quite a pretty picture, which the lad stopped a moment to gaze at, thankful that his snow-ball had not disturbed it.
Then a squirrel nearer at hand caught his eye, and he stood watching the cute little fellow frisk about, with his bright eyes and gracefully waving tail, for fully five minutes.
Presently, however, the confused sound of many voices coming from the other path again turned Art's attention in the direction of the hand-organ. He soon saw that it had been left by the man in charge of the little girl, who was being teased by a company of school-boys.
One of the latter had possessed himself of the bulging cotton umbrella which had stood leaning against the post, and was making as if he were going to run off with it, while the little girl chased him about, scolding at a terrible rate in her fast French.
At first Art was inclined to think that the boys were only in fun. But when he saw two of them catch hold of the organ and hurry away with it into the woods while the girl was running around the corner after her umbrella, all his American blood was up, and he started after "the young highwaymen."
"I may not be a match for both of them in a fight," he reflected, as he sped along, "but perhaps I can frighten them a little;" and making his voice as deep as possible, Art shouted out after the runaways, who, thinking a gen-darme was on their track, dropped the organ in the snow, and dashed on at double-quick.
Our hero slackened up a bit until they were out of sight, and then hurried forward to see if anything had been broken. Luckily the organ had escaped all damage, and picking it up, Art started to carry it back to the little girl. But somehow he could not recollect the exact direction from which he had entered the woods, and after tramping about through the snow for some time, he was compelled to put his burden down and rest awhile.
"Well, well," he mused, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, "this is a pretty fix for me to get myself into. I wonder what the fellows at home would say at seeing me lug this hand-organ about through the woods as if I were an Italian looking for a monkey. And, after all, I don't believe those fellows really meant to steal it. Very likely they only wanted to hide it from the little girl. Still, it was a mean thing to do, and I'm—" But at this instant he became aware of a man running toward him, shouting and shaking his fist, and before Art could make up his mind what to do, he saw that it was the organ-grinder.
Forgetting for the time that ten chances to one the man would not understand a word he said, Art at once began explaining to him how he had recovered his property, when, to his amazement, he was suddenly interrupted by a rough grasp on the collar of his coat, and a torrent of French fury, which ought to have caused him to tremble in his shoes, if he had only deserved and comprehended it.
He did comprehend the tight clutch by which he was held, however, and quite naturally began to grow highly indignant at the injustice done him.