Three Young Knights | Page 5

of the shady side yards stood Kent, turning the crank of a
hand-organ! He was facing the highway where the other two boys were,
but not a trace of recognition was in his face. Ranged in a semicircle
before him was a line of little children shuffling their toes to the gay
tune.
"It's Kent!" gasped Jot.
"Or his ghost--pretty lively one! Where in the world did he get that
hand-organ? And what's he done with his bike? Why--oh!"
Old Tilly added two and two, and, in the light of a sudden inspiration,
they made four. Yes, of course, that was it, but he would wait and let

Jot guess it out for himself. Jot had other business in hand just then.
"Say, come on up there with the youngsters, Old Till!" he whispered
excitedly. "Come on, quick! We'll make him smile! He can't keep his
face with us tagging on with the children!"
They left their wheels beside the road and stalked solemnly up the path.
The children were too intent on the music to notice them, and the figure
at the crank did not change its stiff, military attitude. The tune lurched
and swayed on.
Suddenly, with a sharp click, the music swept into something majestic
and martial, with the tread of soldiers' feet and the boom of drums in it.
The faces of the little children grew solemn, and unconsciously their
little shoulders straightened and they stood "at attention." They were all
little patriots at heart and they longed to step into file and tramp away
to that splendid music.
Again the tune changed sharply, and still again. Then the organ-grinder
slung his instrument with an experienced twist and twirl across his
shoulders, and took off his cap.
"Look, will you? He's going to pass it round!" giggled Jot, under his
breath. "He'll pass it to us, Old Till!"
"Keep your face straight, mind!" commanded Old Till, sharply.
The organ-grinder handed round his cap, up and down the crooked line
of his audience. The two sober boys at one end dropped in a number of
pennies, one at a time deliberately,
"Bless ye!" murmured the organ-grinder, gratefully. Jot's brown face
tweaked with the agony of keeping straight, but Old Tilly was equal to
the occasion. He assumed a benevolent, pitying expression.
"Hold on a minute!" he called. "Here's a nickel for your poor wife and
children. How many you got?"

"Five, sir, your honor," the musician murmured thickly.
"Starving?"
"Sure--all but a couple of the little uns. They're up 'n' dressed, thank ye;
bless ye!"
Jot made a strange, choking sound in his throat.
"Is the young gent took ill?" inquired the organ-grinder, solicitously.
"No, oh, no; only a slight attack of strangulating--he's liable to attacks.
It was the music--too much for him!"' Old Tilly gravely explained, but
his lips quivered and struggled to smile.
The whole little procession trailed slowly down the lane to the street.
At the next house and at all the others in succession, it turned in and
arranged itself in line again, prepared to listen with ears and dancing
toes. Jot and Old Tilly followed on in the rear. They found it hard work
to find pennies enough to drop into the organ-grinder's cap at every
round. Toward the end they economized narrowly.
The small settlement came to an abrupt ending just over the brow of the
hill. The houses gave out, and the musician and his audience swung
about and retraced their steps. The children dropped off, a few at a time,
until there were left only the three boys, who went on soberly together.
"Oh, say!" broke out Jot at last.
"'Tis not for the likes o' me to 'say,' your honor," the organ-grinder
murmured humbly, and Jot gave him a violent nudge.
"Let's knock off foolin'!" he cried. "I say, where'd you get that machine,
Kentie? Where'd you get it? And for the sake o' goodness gracious,
where's your wheel?"
"'Turn, turn, my wheel,'" quoted Kent from the Fourth Reader. He was
shaking with suppressed laughter, that turned into astonishment at Old
Tilly's calm rejoinder. If it didn't take Old Till to ferret things out!

"It isn't liable to 'turn, turn,' while that old tramp has it," Tilly said
calmly. "He isn't built for a rider. What kind of a trade did you make,
anyway? Going halves?"
"No, going wholes!" Kent answered briefly, and would say no more.
They went on down the sandy road. When they got back to the forlorn
old figure under the tree, it was slowly rising up and regarding them out
of tired, lack-luster eyes. The wheel still leaned comfortably in its place
close by.
"Me--bring--money. Play--tunes. You--buy--food," Kent said very
slowly and distinctly, pausing between every word. "He's a foreigner,
you know," he explained over his