The spectral forms of the lost pack were all about him as he sang and ran in open-eyed dream; the violinist paused in surprise; the men poked the monkey leader of the monkey orchestra and whirled him about wildly raging on his revolving stool; and Johnny laughed. But Harris Collins took note. He had heard Michael accurately follow the air. He had heard him sing--not merely howl, but SING.
Silence fell. The monkey leader ceased revolving and chattering.
The men who had poked him held poles and wires suspended in their hands. The rest of the monkey orchestra merely shivered in apprehension of what next atrocity should be perpetrated. The violinist stared. Johnny still heaved from his laughter. But Harris Collins pondered, scratched his head, and continued to ponder.
"You can't tell me . . . " he began vaguely. "I know it. I heard it. That dog carried the tune. Didn't he now? I leave it to all of you. Didn't he? The damned dog sang. I'll stake my life on it.--Hold on, you fellows; rest the monkeys off. This is worth following up.--Mr. Violinist, play that over again, now, 'Home, Sweet Home,'--let her go. Press her strong, and loud, and slow.--Now watch, all of you, and listen, and tell me if I'm crazy, or if that dog ain't carrying the tune.--There! What d'ye call it?
Ain't it?"
There was no discussion. Michael's jaw dropped and his forefeet began their restless lifting after several measures had been played. And Harris Collins stepped close to him and sang with him and in accord.
"Harry Del Mar was right when he said that dog was the limit and sold his troupe. He knew. The dog's a dog Caruso. No howling chorus of mutts such as Kingman used to carry around with him, but a real singer, a soloist. No wonder he wouldn't learn tricks. He had his specially all the time. And just to think of it! I as good as gave him away to that dog-killing Wilton Davis. Only he came back.--Johnny, take extra care of him after this. Bring him up to the house this afternoon, and I'll give him a real try-out.