“I hope we’ll get something to-night,” he announced. “I’ve been having pretty good luck, but you never can tell.” Toby, who had inspected the instrument with the others but had failed to show himself much impressed, was here heard to utter a suspicious “Huh!” Mill ignored it. “We’ll try for some music first,” he went on, both hands busy at the little black knobs. Then, with startling suddenness, some one was singing an Irish ballad! Mrs. Lyle gasped, “Gracious goodness!” and Mr. Lyle beamed and rubbed his hands quite as though he were entirely responsible for the miracle. “W.D.J.K,” announced Mill, above the voice of the singer. “New York. That’s a fellow named Burns singing. He’s pretty good.” “Oh,” sighed Mrs. Lyle, “I thought it was John McGregor!” “McCormack, Mamma,” Betty corrected gently. “Yes, of course, dear. I meant――” There was an orchestral selection after that, mysteriously picked out of the air by the simple readjustment of the knobs, and then an almost deafening shriek of static that made Mrs. Lyle jump and produced a painful facial contortion from Toby, no longer a doubter. Mill put the instrument through its paces very thoroughly for the benefit of its eager audience and was patiently trying to pick up Cleveland when Peaches interrupted: “Say, Mill, it’s almost eight, and I told Toby you’d get that Onondaga University lecture. You know, the one by Professor Brown about frogs.” Mill looked blank for a moment. Then he said: “Oh, yes, I remember. Was that at eight? All right. Let’s see.” He consulted a sheet of paper. “W.L.L.O. That’s it. I’ll see if there’s anything doing yet.” He manipulated the knobs of the dials again, at first with no result. “That’s funny,” he muttered. Mr. Lyle consulted his watch. “Seven fifty-six,” he said. “Likely it isn’t time yet.” “Oh, they don’t always start just on the minute,” said Peaches. “Do they, Mill?” “Not always.” Mill turned the knobs some more and then stood up and leaned over the table. “Maybe the wiring’s loose,” he muttered. He said something else, probably to himself, since it was not intelligible to the audience, while leaning over the dark space behind the table. Then, although it still lacked three minutes of being eight o’clock,――Mr. Benjy set his watch every day by the station clock,――a rather high-pitched voice suddenly broke into the expectant silence: “Station W.L.L.O., Onondaga University Experimental Station, Onondaga, New York, broadcasting. The first number on our program this evening will be a paper read by Professor N. B. Brown, D.S., S.D., R.O.T., of the Department of Zoölogy, Onondaga University. Station W.L.L.O., broadcasting.” There was a pause. “Much more distinct,” said Mr. Benjy, looking around for confirmation. Mrs. Lyle nodded. “Different,” she whispered. “Sounds almost as if――”