He whirled about, still singing, and caught the ecstatic, dreamy gaze of Tim Mullaly. “It’s you!” he cried, pouncing on him. Tim giggled feebly. “Yessir,” he said. “Now sing this scale, and I’ll give you five cents.” An envious sigh quavered through the parish hall. Tim threw back his head and opened his drooping mouth. “_Do, re——_” There was a flash of blue gingham, a snarl of rage, a sound as of fifty pounds of small boy suddenly seated on the floor. “Where’s yer fi’ cents?” a new voice inquired easily. The choirmaster perceived with amazement that the owner of the voice, a freckled boy with an excessively _retroussé_ nose, was sitting on the prostrate Tim. “What is the meaning of this? Get up!” he said sternly. “What’s your name? I can’t have any of this sort of thing in my choir!” The freckled boy did not rise. In fact, he seated himself more comfortably on Master Mullaly, and demanded again: “Where’s yer fi’ cents?” [Illustration: “’_Where’s yer fi’ cents?_’”] The choirmaster stepped forward and seized the offender’s collar. As his fingers tightened, the captive burst into the chorus of the moment before—it was the blackbird voice! So obstinate was the choirmaster’s first impression that he looked instinctively at the fallen Tim to catch the notes, but Tim was struggling meekly but firmly for breath, and this free trilling came from above him. The choirmaster relaxed his hold. “It was you all the time!” he said in a stupor of surprise. “Yep,” replied the singer, “it was me. Did yer think it was him?” with a slight jounce to indicate his victim. “Get up, won’t you, and sing me something else,” the choirmaster urged. The boy rose promptly. “What’ll I sing?” he returned amicably. There had been a different tone in the choirmaster’s voice. “Happy Home! Happy Home!” the crowd demanded. They had stood to one side in the most neutral manner during the brief struggle that had laid Tim low, and listened respectfully to the brief colloquy that followed. It was evident that past experience had suggested this attitude on their part. The choirmaster looked relieved. He had no narrow prejudices, but he realized that a hymn like “My Happy Home” comes with good effect from the parish-hall windows. “Where’s your mouth organ?” demanded the freckled one of a larger boy in the crowd. The latter promptly produced the instrument in question, cuddled it in both hands a moment after the fashion of the virtuoso, and drew forth the jerky and complex series of strains peculiar to it. It was evidently a prelude—a tune vaguely familiar to the choirmaster. Suddenly the boy’s voice burst into this sombre background: “_I’d leave my yappy yome fer you, Oo-oo-oo-oo!_” [Illustration: “’_I’d leave my yappy yome fer you, Oo-oo-oo-oo!_’”]