From a handsome residence on High Street, Belfast, came the sounds of music, singing and merry laughter. From top to bottom the house was brightly illuminated, and the sounds from within told that it was overflowing with light-hearted young people. Mabel Mitshef, or “Mischief,” as she was almost universally called, was giving her party, and Frank Merriwell and his friends, Hodge, Diamond, Browning and Dunnerwust, were invited guests. Leaving out Hans, Frank’s party formed a fine quartet, and their singing of college songs had been received with great applause. “Solomon Levi,” “Bingo,” “Stars of the Summer Night,” all the old favorites came in turn, and still the cry was for more. Browning gave up from sheer exhaustion. “It’s no use,” he said; “I’m not in training. Can’t keep it up, you know. I beg you to excuse me.” Then, being urged, Frank sang one of the late popular songs, Jack accompanying him on the piano. Never had he sung better, and never had those present heard anything that pleased them more. There was a great burst of applause when he finished. “Beautiful!” murmured Hattie Hazle, a handsome, dark-eyed girl. “I don’t wonder all the girls fall in love with Mr. Merriwell, for he does everything divinely! His singing is enough to make anyone adore him.” “I don’d pelief you nefer heardt me sung,” said Hans, who sat near her. “Oh, you haf missed der dreat uf my life! I vos a pird!” “Why, Mr. Dunnerwust,” cried Hattie, a twinkle in her eyes, “I am just perfectly crazy to hear you sing! I’ve been wanting to ask you, but didn’t dare, you know. Won’t you sing us a solo?” “If he does, I hope he will sing it so low I can’t hear it,” muttered Browning. “I’ve heard him sing. The toothache is delirious delight compared to his singing.” “Vale,” said Hans, with assumed modesty, “I don’d put meinseluf vorwart as no brimer donners, but I can vawble in a vay dot vill surbrise you.” “That’s a fact,” nodded Bruce. “Everybody secure a supply of cotton before he begins. You will need it to stop your ears.” “Vot vos dot?” demanded the Dutch boy, angrily. “You vos shelus, dot’s vot’s der madder you mit! You knew I vos goin’ to took der shine off vrom your sunging, und you don’d vant me to done dot. Vale, Misder Prowning, you don’d run der vorld!” “Oh, don’t mind him, Mr. Dunnerwust,” said Hattie. “I am sure we are all very anxious to hear you sing.” “Yes, indeed!” cried several other girls, taking the cue from Hattie and crowding about Hans. “Please sing, Mr. Dunnerwust.” “Vale,” said Hans, smiling and putting his hand over his face in a manner meant to express great embarrassment, “it vill gif you great bleasure—no, I mean it vill gif me great bleasure to sung to der laties. I nefer could resist der laties.” He arose and bowed, with his hand on his heart. “Oh, how charming!” cried several of the girls, who had been given the tip by Merriwell early in the evening to have sport with the Dutch boy. “Do sing, Mr. Dunnerwust!”