“Well, then, the fellow must have a throat like a nightingale,” asserted the enthusiastic Pep. The active whistler deserved all the chums said about him. His repertoire seemed exhaustless. He confined himself to imitations of birds exclusively--and of only such birds as were native to the surrounding country. He fairly filled the air with melody, and real birds in the trees and shrubbery about the handsome residences of the locality twittered, hopped about and responded in an echoing chorus to his expert call. Little children came running out of yards to gaze in wonder and admiration at this unusual warbler. Even older folks watched and listened to him. The man turned a corner out of view of the motion picture chums, followed by quite a procession. He had scarcely vanished before a high wagon such as is used to carry cooper’s barrels turned slowly into the street. A slow old horse pulled it along. Its driver nimbly leaped from his seat. The moment he called out “Whoa!” to the horse and turned his face toward the chums, Pep Smith uttered a great shout. “Why, fellows, see,” he cried, in mingled glee and surprise--“it’s Ben Jolly!” CHAPTER V THE BIRD HOUSE Ben Jolly it was, more sprightly, more jolly-looking than ever, for he waved his hand with a genial smile to the children staring down the side street after the whistler. The other reached into the wagon. Instantly upon recognizing their old-time friend and helper the three chums started in his direction. “Hi, there!” hailed Pep, while Randy waved his hand gaily and all hurried their gait. “Well! well!” exclaimed Jolly, his face an expanding smile of welcome, extending both hands and greeting his friends in turn. “I expected to find you here and headed for here, but I did not expect to run across you so oddly.” “For mercy’s sake, Mr. Jolly,” burst forth Randy, staring in amazement at the wagon, “what in the world have you got there?” “Why bird houses,” replied Jolly. “Bird houses?” repeated Pep, equally bewildered. “What are you doing with such a lot of bird houses?” “Selling them, of course.” Frank himself was surprised and puzzled. The wagon contained half a dozen tiers of little box-like structures packed close. At one side was a heap of poles the size of display flag staffs. These poles were stout and heavy, painted white, and about twelve feet in length. The houses were about two feet high and as wide. They were painted white, like the poles, and were exact models of a broad, low colonial house, even to the veranda. The roof was painted red, there was an imitation chimney and a double open doorway in front trimmed with green. All around this miniature house were little apertures representing windows.