open across the back yard, but no one appeared at it. Fudge had drawn the conversation back to shot-putting and was indulging in a few well-chosen disparaging remarks with regard to the overbearing manner of Harry Partridge when sounds came to them. Of course sounds had been coming to them for half an hour; the patter of rain, the quiet foot-falls of Mrs. Hull below-stairs, the whistle of the three-twenty-two train crossing the bridge and such ordinary noises; but this was new and different. Perry drew Fudge's attention to it and then listened puzzledly. At first it seemed to come from around the corner of the house, but presently they located it in the room occupied by the "train-robber." They crowded their heads through the window and strained their ears.
"What's he doing?" demanded Fudge in a hoarse whisper after a minute or two.
"I think"—Perry hesitated—"I think he's singing!"
"Singing!"
"Yes; listen!" They listened. Perry was right. The sounds that issued from the window were undoubtedly those of a man's voice raised in song. What the words of the song were they couldn't make out, but the tune, if it deserved the name, was peculiarly slow and doleful.
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