Hark! whats that? whispered Bob.
They paused on tiptoe. A subdued, choky roar, or growl, was borne down the front stairway from above.
You ought to know that sound by this time, said Henry Burns. Its young Joe, snoring. Dont you remember how the other boys used to declare he would make the boat leak, by jarring it with that racket, when we had to sleep aboard last summer? Why, he used to have black and blue spots up and down his legs, where George and Arthur kicked him awake, so they could go to sleep.
The sound was, indeed, prodigious for one boy to make.
We may as well have some light on the subject, said Henry Burns, striking a match and lighting the hanging-lamp in the sitting-room. It shed a soft glow over the place and revealed a room prettily furnished; the hardwood floor reflecting from its polished surface the rays from the lamp; a generous fireplace in one corner; and, more to the purpose at present, some big easy chairs, in which the boys made themselves at home.
But first a peep into the Warren kitchen pantry rewarded Bob with a mighty iron serving-tray, and Tom with a pair of tin pot-covers, which, grasped by their handles and clashed together, would serve famously as cymbals.
Now, said Henry Burns, when they were all assembled and comfortably seated, you remember how we used to imitate the village band when it practised nights in the loft over the old fish-house? Well, Ill be the cornet; Tom, youre the bass horn
He is when his voice doesnt break, remarked Bob, slyly.
Thats all right, replied Henry Burns. Every musician strikes a false note once in awhile, you know. And he continued, You are the slide-trombone, Jack; and you, Bob, come in with that shrieking whistle through your fingers for the flute.
Great! exclaimed Bob. What shall we try?
Oh, well give them Old Black Joe for a starter, said Henry Burns, just out of compliment to young black Joe up-stairs.
Presently, there arose through the stillness of the house, and was wafted up the stairway, an unmelodious, mournful discord, that may perhaps have borne some grotesque resemblance to the old song they had chosen, but was, indeed, a most atrocious and melancholy rendering of it.
Then they paused to listen.
There was no answering
sound from above, save that the snoring of young Joe was no longer deep and regular, but broken and short and sharp, like snorts of protest.
Repeat! ordered Henry Burns to his grinning band.
Again the combined assault on Old Black Joe began.
Then they paused again.
The snoring of young Joe was broken off abruptly, with one particularly loud outburst on his part. There was, also, the creaking of a bed in another room, and a sound as of some one sitting bolt upright.
Here, you Joe! Quit that! What on earth are you doing? called out the voice of George Warren, in tones which denoted that he had awakened from slumber, but not to full consciousness of what had waked him, except that it was some weird sound.
Then another voice, more sleepily than the other: Whats the matter, George? Keep quiet, and let a fellow go to sleep.
Why, its that young Joes infernal nonsense, I suppose, exclaimed the elder brother. Now, that will be enough of that, Joe. It isnt funny, you know.
Thats it! always blaming me for something, came the answer from the youngest boys room. You fellows are dreaming gracious, no! I hear a voice down-stairs.
It was the voice of Henry Burns saying solemnly, Repeat.
Old Black Joe, out of time, out of tune, turned inside out and scarcely recognizable, again arose to the ears of the now fully aroused Warren brothers.
There was the sound of some one leaping out of bed upon the bare chamber floor.
Now you get back into bed there, Joe! came the voice of George Warren, peremptorily. Let those idiots, Tom and Bob, amuse themselves till they get tired, if they think its funny. We are not going to get up to-night, and thats all there is about it. Say, you fellows go on now, and let us alone. Were tired, and we are not going to get up.
Too dictatorial, altogether, commented Henry Burns, softly. Give them the full band now, good and lively.
So saying, he seized the huge dinner-bell; Harvey took up the great fog-horn; Tom and Bob, the pot-covers and serving-tray, respectively. A hideous din, that was the combined blast of the deep horn, the clanging reverberation of the tray beaten upon by Bobs stout fist, the bellowing of the dinner-bell and the clash of cymbals, roared and stormed through the walls of the Warren cottage, as though bedlam had broken loose. The rafters fairly groaned with it.
Down the stairway appeared a pair of bare legs. Then the form and face of young Joe came into view. He stared for a moment wildly at the occupants of the Warren easy chairs, and the next moment let out a whoop of delight.
Oh, hooray! he yelled. Come on, George. Come on, Arthur. Hurry up! Oh, my! but its Henry Burns.
A small avalanche of bare feet and bare legs poured down the stairs, belonging in all to Joe, Arthur, and George Warren. Three sturdy figures, clad in their night-clothes, leaped into the room, whooping and yelling, and descended in one concerted swoop upon the luckless Henry Burns. That young gentleman went down on the floor, where he afforded a seat for two of the Warren boys, while young Joe, with pretended fury, proceeded to pummel him, good-naturedly.