The House of Silvery Voices

Wayfarers on the far side of Our Square used to stop before Number 37 and wonder. The little house, it seemed, was making music at them. "Kleam, kleam, kleam, kleam," it would pipe pleasantly.

"BHONG! BHONG! BHONG!" solemn and churchly, in rebuke of its own levity.

"Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang!" That was a duet in the middle register.

Then from some far-off aerie would ring the tocsin of an elfin silversmith, fast, furious, and tiny:

"Ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping!"

We surmised that a retired Swiss bell-ringer had secluded himself in our remote backwater of the great city to mature fresh combinations of his art.

Before the Voices came, Number 37 was as quiet a house as any in the Square. Quieter than most, since it was vacant much of the time and the ceremonious sign of the Mordaunt Estate, "For Rental to Suitable Tenant," invited inspection. "Suitable" is the catch in that innocent-appearing legend. For the Mordaunt Estate, which is no estate at all and never has been, but an ex-butcher of elegant proclivities named Wagboom, prefers to rent its properties on a basis of prejudice rather than profit, and is quite capable of rejecting an applicant as unsuitable on purely eclectic grounds, such as garlic for breakfast, or a glass eye.

How the new tenant had contrived to commend himself to Mr. Mordaunt-Wagboom is something of a mystery. Probably it was his name rather than his appearance, which was shiny, not to say seedy. He encountered the Estate when that incorporated gentleman was engaged in painting the front door, and, in a deprecating voice, inquired whether twenty-five dollars a month would be considered.

"Maybe," returned the Estate, whereupon the stranger introduced himself, with a stiff little bow, as Mr. Winslow Merivale.

Mr. Wagboom was favorably impressed with this, as possessing aristocratic implications.

"The name," he pronounced, "is satisfactory. The sum is satisfactory. It is, however, essential that the lessor should measure up in character and status to the standards of the Mordaunt Estate." This he had adapted from the prospectus of a correspondence school, which had come to him through the mail, very genteelly worded. "Family man?" he added briskly.

"Yes, sir."

"How many of you?"

"Two."

"Wife?"

"No, sir," said the little man, very low.

"Son? Daughter? What age?"

"I have never been blessed with a child."

"Then who--"

"Willy Woolly would share the house with me, sir."

For the first time the Mordaunt Estate noticed a small, fluffy poodle, with an important expression, seated behind the