“I hope they won’t find him a dangerous fellow,” remarked Rosie with a gleeful laugh.
“No, indeed, I hope not,” said Mary Keith, in a slightly anxious tone. “Have you gentlemen any idea who he may be?”
“The bugler, do you mean, cousin?” asked Edward Travilla. “I won’t say certainly, but I have an idea that he is a perfectly harmless old fellow who occasionally haunts this neighborhood.”
“No, not that, but one who enjoys surprising and mystifying those who know little or nothing about him or his arts.”
“Well, I am glad to hear that he is harmless,” she said in a tone of relief, “for knowing that, one can enjoy listening to his playing and singing.”
“Do you think they will find him, Cousin Ronald?” asked Marian, in a tone that sounded slightly mirthful.
“I, lassie?” he returned; “what should I ken aboot the folks o’ this neighborhood?”
“Oh, you have visited here a good deal, and so I thought you might have gained some knowledge of so odd a character.”
“More than that possessed by any o’ these cousins who live in the neighborhood, lass?” he asked with a good-humored laugh. “Truly you are paying your auld kinsman a high compliment.”
“I could not possibly pay you one that would be higher than your deserts, Cousin Ronald,” she returned.
“Oh, hark!” exclaimed Rosie, “the bugler is at it again!” as a few notes floated on the air; then the same voice they had heard before sang again, apparently coming from a tree-top not many yards away:
“Green grow the rashes, O, Green grow the rashes, O, The sweetest hours that e’er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O.”
“He seems to be very fond of the lasses, but has nothing to say of the lads,” laughed Walter.
“And they, it seems, can’t find him,” said Edward, as the three young men were seen returning toward the house. “Well, lads, what success?” he called to them.
“None as yet,” replied Harold, “but we are not quite in despair. Surely we heard his voice a moment since, nearer the house than when he gave us his Thimble song.”
“Yes, it seemed to me to come from the top of that magnolia, and he must be very quick in his movements if he has got down from it already.”
“What you doing? what you ’bout?” came just at that instant in a loud, harsh scream, apparently from the same tree-top. “Breakfast-time. Polly wants a cracker. Polly wants a cup of coffee.”