re' or 'The Passing of Arthur'?"

"Nope. 'The Bold Buccaneer,' by the Honest Iceman of Mazoopa," answered
Phil.

"And here he is now," said Nan as the front door boomed and rattled.

There was no bell at the Bartletts': but from the door hung a
bass-drumstick, with which visitors were expected to thump. This had
been a part of the equipment of a local band that had retired from
business. In the dispersion of its instruments the drum had reached a
second-hand store. Nan, with a keen eye for such chances, had bought and
dismantled the drum, and used the frame as a stockade for fresh chirpers
from her incubator. The drumstick seemed to have been predestined of all
time to serve as a knocker.

"It's Amy. I told him to come," said Phil.

Her father's face fell almost imperceptibly. The company was complete as
it was and much as he liked Amzi he resented his appearance at this
hour. Rose went to the door.

"It may be Judge Walters. He's been trying to get over for some time to
talk about that new book on hypnotism," said Nan.

It proved, however, to be Amzi. They heard him telling Rose in the entry
that he was just passing and thought he would drop in.

"That will do for that, Amy," called Phil. "You told me you were
coming."

"I told you nothing of the kind!" blustered Amzi.

"Then, sir, you didn't; you _did not_!"

Amzi glared at them all fiercely. His cherubic countenance was so
benevolent, the kind eyes behind his spectacles so completely annulled
his ferocity, that his assumed fierceness was absurd.

He addressed them all by their first names, and drew out a cigar.
Kirkwood was smoking his pipe. Phil held a match for her uncle and
placed a copper ash-tray on the table at his elbow. Rose continued her
search for a piece of music, and Nan curled herself on the corner of a
davenport that occupied one side of the room under the open bookshelves.

"This looks like a full session; first we've had for some time,"
remarked Amzi. "Been playing, Rose?"

"No; Phil's trying to remember a tune. Whistle it, Phil."

Phil whistled it, her eyes twinkling.

"Sounds like a dead march done in ragtime," suggested Nan, whose ear was
said to be faulty.

"All the great masters will be done over pretty soon by the raggists,"
declared Phil.

"Spoken like the Philistine you are not, Phil," said Kirkwood. "What you
were trying to whistle is the 'Lucia Sextette' upside down. Rose, let's
have the 'Mozart Minuet' we used to play