“Yes, come on!” Jot called back as he shot ahead.  “I haven’t a doubt but we’ll find Kentie’s got his bike tucked away all safe in the toe of his stocking!”

They came almost instantly into the outskirts of a snug little settlement.  The road was flanked on both sides by neat white houses.  Trig little children scurried out of their way, cheering shrilly.  Somewhere there was music. [Transcriber’s note:  the word “trig”, above, is as it appears in the original book.]

“Hark!” Jot cried.

“Hark yourself!  That’s a good hand-organ,” Old Tilly said; and he hummed the familiar tune, and both wheels sped on to the time of it, as it seemed.  The music grew louder.  “Look up in that dooryard, will you!  Jot Eddy, look at the chap that’s grinding it!”

Jot uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

CHAPTER III.

Up in one 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,