“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 shoulder to the boys.  “He no understand.  You have to talk pigeon English to him.  See how he catches on to what I said?”