"Jimminy, he must be feeling bad!" muttered Fudge.
"Sounds like a—a dirge, doesn't it?"
"Awful!" They tried hard to hear what it was all about, but as the singer was evidently well back from the window and as the window was some little distance away, they failed. Finally they drew their heads in, being by that time somewhat wet, and viewed each other inquiringly. Then, without a word, Fudge lifted his cap from the table, Perry, equally silent, moved toward the door and the two quietly descended the staircase. Perry got his cap from the tree in the front hall and they slipped through the front door, across the porch and into the drizzle.
Two minutes later they were climbing the stairs in the brick building on G Street, looking very much like the desperate conspirators they felt themselves to be. A pleasant odor from the bakery on the first floor pursued them as they noiselessly ascended the staircase and crept along the first hall. The building was silent and apparently deserted until, half-way up the second flight, from behind the closed door and transom of Number 7, came the muffled tones of a deep bass voice in monotonous, wailing cadence. The boys paused at the head of
the stairs and listened. Words came to them, but
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