But there was nothing to fear. The five youths gazed wonderingly into the faces of what appeared to them a portentous apparition. They crowded close, but they said nothing until the three had passed. Then George called: "Bye-bye, ladies!"
And Finch cooed: "Ta-ta, gennelman!"
Then a storm of bye-byes and ta-tas followed the retreating figures.
A window was thrown up in the large house opposite, and a man in his nightclothes appeared in the opening.
"If you hoodlums don't get off this street in double-quick time, I'll call the police. Now, get a move on!"
The members of the orchestra looked at each other. Then they burst into jeers, whistles, and catcalls. Finch packed a snowball and sent it flying through the window into the angry whiskered face. A volley of snowballs followed. The householder retreated. He was going to telephone for the police.
Almost at the moment of his disappearance a thick, helmeted figure appeared at the corner of the street. With terrified looks they snatched up their mandolins, banjo, and flute, silent participators in all this rowdyism, and fled along the street and down a lane. From there they emerged into another street, raced along it, and heard the policeman's whistle on the clear morning air.
Bright red-gold wavelets of cloud appeared in the eastern sky, forerunners of the strong tide of day. Blue shadows became visible on the snow.
Finch and George Fennel found themselves separated from the rest. They ran on for several blocks, and at last made sure that they were not pursued. They halted and looked at each other curiously as people who meet under strange circumstances for the first time.
"Where do you live?" asked Finch.
"With aunt in ole house in College Street."
After a moment's reflection, Finch observed: "I live in ole house, too. Name of Jalna."
"In-deed. Are you going there now?"
"I dunno. Where'd you say you live?"
"I said ole house in College Street."
