to sleep. Tom Woods had started an uncomfortable train of thought running through his mind.
In the morning, after breakfast, they went with the man to a country church; and afterwards they bid him good-by and started back toward Springham, Bill with his precious box of paints and brushes lashed to the frame of his bicycle. Twice the box slipped, and they had to stop and secure it anew. As a result of these delays it was long past noon when Bert reached home. His father had dozed off in a chair and his mother was reading; but she put down the book and set him out food that she had kept warm against the time of his arrival. While he ate she asked him many questions dealing with his visit, and at last seemed to be satisfied. He went up to his room, got out the old accordion, and tried some of the melodies that Tom Woods had twanged on the banjo.
"Hush, Bert," his mother admonished him guardedly from the hall.
"Oh, let him play," his father's voice called. "I'm awake, anyway. Bring it down, Bert, and give us a tune."
Bert brought the musical relic downstairs and played "The Washington Post." His father admitted that it was not bad and, proud of his achievement, he played the march again. When he began the piece the third time Mr. Quinby yawned.
"Is that the only thing you know?" he asked.
