“Why, you boob,” says I, “they could hear you a mile off!”

“Really?” says he.  “But you don’t suppose Vio—­I mean, the Misses Hibbs could hear, do you?”

“Unless it’s their habit to putty up their ears at night,” says I.

“But—­but what will they think?” he gasps breathless.

“That they’re bein’ serenaded by some admirin’ friend,” says I.  “What’s your guess?”

“Oh—­oh!” says Merry, slumpin’ down on a settee.  “I—­I had not thought of that.”

“Ah, buck up!” say I.  “Maybe you can fake an alibi in the mornin’.  Anyway, you can’t spend the night here.  You got to report to Aunty.”

He lets out another groan, and then gets on his feet.  “There’s a path through the bushes along here somewhere,” says he.

“No more cross country work in full dress clothes for me,” says I.  “We’ll sneak down the Hibbs’s drive where the goin’s easy.”

We was doin’ it real sleuthy too, keepin’ on the lawn and dodgin’ from shadow to shadow, when just as we’re passin’ the house Merry has to stub his toe and drop his blamed cornet with a bang.

Then out from a second story window floats a voice:  “Who is that, please?”

Merry nudges me in the ribs.  “Tell them it’s you,” he whispers.

“Why, it’s—­it’s me—­Torchy,” says I reluctant.

“Oh!  Ah!” says a couple of voices in chorus.  Then one of ’em goes on, “The young man who is visiting dear Meredith?”

“Yep,” says I.  “Same one.”

“But it wasn’t you playing the cornet so beautifully, was it?” comes coaxin’ from the window.

“Tell them yes,” whispers Merry, nudgin’ violent.

“Gwan!” I whispers back.  “I’m in bad enough as it is.”  With that I speaks up before he can stop me, “Not much!” says I.  “That was dear Meredith himself.”

“Oh-oh!” says the voices together.  Then there’s whisperin’ between ‘em.  One seems urgin’ the other on to something, and at last it comes out.  “Young man,” says the voice, smooth and persuadin’, “please tell us who—­that is—­which one of us was the serenade intended for?”

This brings the deepest groan of all from J. Meredith.

“Come on, now,” says I, hoarse and low in his ear.  “It’s up to you.  Which?”

“Oh, really,” he whispers back, “I—­I can’t!”

“You got to, and quick,” says I.  “Come now, was it Pansy?”

“No, no!” says he, gaspy.

“Huh!” says I.  “Then Violet gets the decision.”  And I holds him off by main strength while I calls out, “Why, ain’t you on yet?  It was for Violet, of course.”

“Ah-h-h-h!  Thank you.  Good night,” comes a voice—­no chorus this time:  just one—­and the window is shut.

“There you are, Merry,” says I.  “It’s all over.  You’re as good as booked for life.”

He was game about it, though, Merry was.  He squares it with Aunty before goin’ to bed, and right after breakfast next mornin’ he marches over to the Hibbses real business-like.  Half an hour later I saw him strollin’ out on the wharf with one of the big sisters, and I knew it must be Violet.  It was his busy day; so I says nothin’ to anybody, but fades.